Dancing in the Shadows
by Ayiana2
Summary: Dancing in the Shadows is a re-imagining of season three through the episode Invictus. It’s a hybrid, a cross between a novelization and an alternate universe reconstruction in which Catherine lives and joins Vincent in the search for their son.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Dancing in the Shadows

**Author**: Ayiana

**Rating**: Teen +

**Category**: Vincent/Catherine — SND

**Disclaimer**: _Dancing in the Shadows_ is a re-imagining of the third season through the episode _Invictus_. It's a hybrid, a cross between a novelization and an alternate universe reconstruction. As such, and because I wanted to stay as true to the original as possible, I borrowed many events, dialogue snippets, and even entire scenes from the source material and included them here, reworked to support the premise that Catherine survived her ordeal with Gabriel. These borrowed pieces are not my work, and credit for them belongs, in its entirety, to Ron Koslow and his writing staff.

**Author's Note 1**: We know that the events of _The Watcher_ took place during the week of April 12, but after that, things get murky. Taking advantage of that ambiguity (_Trial_ and _The Hollow Men_ must each have covered a time period of at least several weeks, since both involved legal proceedings), I've set the events in _The Rest is Silence_ in mid September, and baby Jacob's birth in early April. There are places where this appears to conflict with canon, but I believe those conflicts are minor.

**Author's Note 2**: This story wouldn't have come out nearly as well without the help of my incredible beta readers. My deepest thanks go out to Rachel and Sylvia. My thanks, also, to my family, who suffered through countless late and burned dinners without a word of complaint.

**xXx**

**xXx**

_Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,  
__Enwrought with golden and silver light,__  
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths__  
Of night and light and the half-light,  
_

_I would spread the cloths under your feet:__  
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;__  
I have spread my dreams under your feet;  
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams._

_ W. B. Yeats_

**xXx**

**xXx**

**Prologue**

Some scientists believe that hurricanes can start with something as insignificant as the flutter of a butterfly's wings, but the hurricane that changed Catherine and Vincent's lives started with a little black book.

It was the little black book that first brought Catherine to Gabriel's attention. And, as is true for hurricanes, what happened next was all about the timing. If Gabriel hadn't learned of her pregnancy, if he hadn't locked her in a room with exposed plumbing, if Vincent hadn't tried to rescue her, if the video cameras hadn't been working . . .

The series of coincidences combined with Gabriel's immense power to create the makings of a tragedy.

What Gabriel wanted, Gabriel got.

And Gabriel wanted Catherine's child.

Catherine became an investment—and investments were to be protected at all costs. To that end, he locked her in a barren room, a room without pictures on the walls, without books, without music—without warmth. There was only a narrow bed, a small nightstand, and a grim private-duty nurse who was more security guard than caretaker.

For six months, Catherine's only companion was the infant that grew in her womb, the infant who was her sole remaining connection to Vincent. Their baby—living testament to the depth of their love and to Vincent's humanity—deserved to know who his parents were.

And so she talked to him.

She told him about the extraordinary man who was his father. She told him about poetry and music and long walks in the moonlight. She told him about hopes and dreams, about nobility and honor, and about what it meant to love somebody. And during the long dark nights, when her baby's movements pulled her from her dreams, she would lay her hands on her growing stomach and soak the pillow with her tears.

It wasn't long before she realized that they would kill her after her baby came, and that her only purpose here was as a sort of living incubator, a vessel from which her captor's ultimate dream was to be realized. She knew it, and she prepared for it, and yet somehow, when the moment arrived, she wasn't ready.

Even as her newborn son was taken from her . . .

Even as the doctor filled a syringe with morphine . . .

Even at the very end . . .

She prayed for a miracle.

**xXx**

**xXx**

**Chapter 1**

At first Catherine thought she was back in the tunnels. But she had no memory of coming here, no awareness of how she had arrived. And if she was in the tunnels, where was Vincent? Where were the ringing of the pipes, the smell of torchlight and candles?

She sensed that she was standing, but she had no awareness of her body. There was no pressure of the floor against her feet, no touch of air sliding across her skin. There was only a vast, dim, nothingness.

She was alone.

She turned, and silver mist swirled around her legs.

"Vincent?" No response. Not even the echo of her own voice. "Vincent, where are you?"

Somewhere nearby, she sensed a presence, a slight ripple in the fog.

"He can't follow you here, Cathy." It was a familiar voice, full of warmth and affection. "Not this time. You've come too far."

"Daddy?"

The mist shifted, parting to reveal him standing a few feet away. "Hello, Cathy."

She wanted to run to him, to fling herself into his arms. But something held her back.

"I can't move . . ." The fact didn't bother her as much as it should have.

He nodded. "I know."

"But why?"

"Because you haven't decided yet."

"Decided what?"

With a wave of his arm, he indicated the vast emptiness. "Do you know where you are?"

She looked around her, and then up at a sky devoid of stars, devoid of clouds, devoid even of the moon. Then she took a deep breath and inhaled nothingness that melted in her mouth like strands of spun sugar. "Am I dreaming?"

"No." He shook his head. "Not a dream."

Uneasy, and a little frightened, she smoothed her hand along the gauzy fabric of her dress, a dress she didn't remember owning. "Tell me."

"You're caught between two paths of existence." His voice had a faint echo, as though he was standing right in front of her, and at the same time, very far away.

Paths of existence? The absence of sensation was distracting her, making it hard to concentrate on what he was saying. "I don't understand."

"You're dying, sweetheart." He paused for a moment, watching her while the words sank in. "But Vincent is with you. His love is holding you back, giving you time to think. To choose."

She blinked. "But I feel fine. Only somehow I'm standing here talking to you, and I know that isn't possible because—"

"I'm dead, I know." He smiled, a little sadly. "It's only your consciousness that's here with me, Cathy. Your . . . soul, though I've never really thought that an adequate word."

"So, this is Heaven?" Somehow this vast emptiness wasn't what she would have expected.

"Not exactly." He watched her with the fatherly worry she recognized from her childhood. "Do you remember," he said finally, "when you almost drowned?"

The memory came to her with a cold shiver. "Yes." She remembered strong arms and the comforting thud of a frantically beating heart. "Vincent saved me."

Her father nodded. "He's a good man."

"Yes." Just then, she felt an odd pulling sensation—like a reminder of something she was supposed to do. But she couldn't tell where it came from. "He took such risks, made such great sacrifices, for me."

"More than once, from what I understand." Her father took a deep breath. "Cathy, what do you want?"

The question confused her. He'd said it so seriously, as though the fate of the universe depended upon her answer. "What do you mean?"

He waved a hand. "The ones who come here—they're confused. Torn. They can't decide which way to go." His eyes were sad, as though he grieved for those lost souls. "Sometimes they stay here for eternity, caught between somewhere and everywhere." He looked around at the mist, at the nothingness. "I want so much more than that for you."

"But I'm not confused."

"Aren't you?" His eyes were gentle as he watched her. "There's a part of you, Cathy, that wants to let go, to leave the pain and the sadness of your physical being behind. A part that's tired and wants to rest. But something is holding you back."

"Vincent." There was that tug again. Like the flutter of butterfly wings in her hair.

He nodded. "Partly."

She considered his words while he waited for her in patient silence.

"My son," she said at last. She met his eyes. "Daddy, I have a son." The word felt strange in her mouth. She rolled it over her tongue again, testing its shape. "My son."

"Yes." He looked proud. "And a handsome boy he is, too."

"You've seen him?" It seemed impossible. And yet so much of what she'd once thought impossible wasn't, really.

"Of course."

"Do you know where he is? Can I see him?"

He nodded. "But not here. Not now. First, you have to choose."

"There _is_ no choice, Dad. He's my son. I would do anything for him."

"Listen to me, Cathy. You need to understand what I'm about to say, because once you decide, once you _choose_, there's no changing your mind. They don't give refunds here. The next time, if there _is_ a next time, you may not _have_ a choice."

"I'm listening." She bit back her impatience. Why wouldn't he hurry? Why wouldn't he take her to her son?

"There are only two ways out of this place we're in. This . . . _Between_. Back the way you came, or forward. If you choose to go forward, to join your mother and me, you'll be able to watch over your son, to see him grow up and become a man. And you can watch over Vincent as well. And Joe Maxwell, and Jenny Aronson, and Nancy, and all the other people you care about."

"Even the people Below?" Catherine asked.

"If you like."

He looked troubled. There was something here she wasn't seeing. Something she didn't understand.

"There's something else, isn't there," she said.

"It's _all_ you can do, sweetheart. If you come with me, you can only watch."

A chill shivered up Catherine's spine. "Look, but don't touch?"

"Something like that, yes."

"And if I go back?"

"It won't be easy, Cathy. Even now it's almost too late. With each passing moment, the choice is slipping away from you." He took a step toward her, opening his arms. Then he stopped. Tilted his head. Listened to something Catherine couldn't hear. Slowly, he dropped his arms back to his side, a look of impossible sadness in his eyes.

"Cathy, I made my choice. I was old. And tired. And I had done the things I needed to do in that world. But you still have a future. And it's a future full of possibilities." He hesitated, and when he went on, it was to give her a warning. "But if you do go back, you need to understand that you may not survive the journey. And you may never see your son again."

"But wouldn't I just end up here again?"

He shook his head. "No. If you try to go back, and your physical body dies before you get there, you'll spend eternity on a path that leads nowhere."

It was a frightening thought.

"But Vincent is there." And there was that tug again. The pull was becoming almost familiar.

"Yes."

She met her father's eyes. "And I _would_ find my son," she said. "I would find him even if it was the last thing I ever did."

He watched her, troubled. "Maybe."

In the end, it wasn't a difficult choice. She'd thought maybe it would be, that maybe staying here—where it was safe and warm and comfortable, where evil couldn't reach her, and where she could at least _see_ her son even if she couldn't hold him—might sway her decision.

But Vincent was _there_. Vincent. Who loved her. Who gave her . . . _everything_. Who showed her what it was, what it _truly_ was, to be beautiful.

She looked into her father's eyes and knew he understood. "I love you," she said. "And tell Mom—" Her chest ached with the pain of saying goodbye again. "Tell Mom I love her, too."

But he was fading into the mists already—or she was, she wasn't really sure. Slowly, she slipped into darkness, a darkness so deep that even Vincent couldn't reach her.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent carried her home.

Later, he'd have little memory of that trail of tears. Only fragments. Vague images and sensations. The weight of her in his arms, the sheen of lamplight on her hair, the muffled night sounds of the city that never slept.

He laid her on her bed, the soft mattress accepting her slight body. Welcoming her. Holding her. Her hair spread out across the pillow. She looked like she was asleep, and for a heartbeat, he almost believed that she was.

"Out, out, brief candle," he murmured, kneeling down beside her and taking her hand in his. His face was wet with tears. He had no sense of the passage of time, no concept of minutes spilling over into hours until at last some part of him, some deep, instinctive sense of self-preservation, drew his attention to the encroaching dawn.

He couldn't stay here, but his heart cried out against leaving her.

Somehow he summoned the strength to stand, to move away . . . but he had to turn back. Slowly, he bent and placed a tender kiss upon her lips. How sad it was that this simple intimacy, denied to her in life, was the only thing he had left to give to her in death.

"While I live, you live. With me. _In_ me." His voice cracked. "Always."

He forced himself to walk away, only to stop at the open balcony doors and turn back for one last look at her beloved face, one last thought of the dream that had been, the dream that _could_ have been.

"Always . . ."


	2. Chapter 2

Beep . . . beep . . . beep . . . beep . . .

High-pitched and insistent, the sound pulled at her, lifting her up and out of a deep, dreamless sleep. In a distant part of her mind, she recognized the sharp smell of antiseptic, the warm, bland odors of institutional food, and something else, something unpleasant but as yet unidentifiable. She tried to swallow. Her mouth and throat felt dry and scratchy, as though desert sands and scorpions had taken up residence while she'd slept.

Beep . . . beep . . .

It was beginning to annoy her, and she thought she should reach over and hit the snooze button, but she hadn't the strength. Why? Why was she so weak? And where was she?

Did she even want to know?

Fear washed over her, but she fought it down. She mustn't panic, mustn't draw attention to herself. Wherever she was, whatever was going on, her best hope lay in gathering her resources, in learning as much as she could before anybody realized she was awake. So she lay quietly, and listened. And breathed. And learned.

She was in a hospital. She recognized the sounds—the steady beep of a heart monitor, the hushed professional voices, the squeak of rubber-soled shoes. But which hospital? And how had she gotten here? The last thing she remembered was the rooftop . . .

And then the memories flooded back. Pain. Loss. An all too brief glimpse of Vincent's face as he caught her in his arms. _And death shall have no dominion_.

Oh, God. Her baby.

She had to find him, had to protect him, had to . . . She struggled, forcing her arms to obey her commands, commanding her eyes to open. She had to go, had to . . .

"Hey, now. Easy." Joe's voice. Joe's hands pushing her gently back down into the pillows. "Welcome back, Radcliffe."

"Joe." Sound snagged on the dry places in her throat as the room around her swam into focus. Joe leaned over her, his hands on her shoulders, the smile on his face belied by the worry in his eyes.

"In the flesh."

"Where—?"

"Metropolitan Hospital." He straightened her covers, pulling them back up to her shoulders. "It was touch and go there for a while. Doc wasn't sure you'd make it." He turned to pour her a glass of water. "I guess somebody up there thinks you still have a few bad guys to chase."

"How long?"

"Long enough." He held up a plastic cup. "Thirsty?"

She nodded, sipping gratefully when he brought the straw to her lips. Cool water washed away the sand and the scorpions. "Joe—"

"Let's see. Today's Saturday." He glanced at his watch. "And it's just past seven. Cleaning lady found you Thursday morning, so that's . . . something like fifty-eight hours. Geez, Radcliffe. That's some nap."

He was trying to make her smile, but all she could think about was Vincent. "Found me where?"

"Your place."

"Home?"

"Yup. Looks like somebody brought you there." He tilted his head and raised a curious eyebrow. "How do you suppose they did that?"

"What?"

"Nobody saw you come in. Seventeen floors, Radcliffe. And nobody saw a thing. Wouldn't you say that's a little odd?"

She blinked slowly, but her thoughts were clearing now, and her mind raced with questions. How _had_ she gotten home? Had Vincent carried her all that way? And why home? Why not here or Below?

When she didn't answer, Joe shook his head, worry in his eyes. "Somebody wanted you dead, Cathy. They wanted it real bad. Doc tells me you had a lethal dose of morphine in your system when they brought you in. Hell, they're still trying to figure out why you're alive."

They wouldn't believe her if she told them, she thought. "Joe, I'm sorry. I don't . . . I can't remember."

The door opened then, and a doctor swept in. He had dark hair behind a receding hairline, and an old stethoscope that dangled from the collar of a wrinkled lab coat. Beneath the coat, he wore a dark turtleneck and khaki pants. "Ah," he said with a bright smile. "You're awake."

Joe turned. "Only just," he said.

"Right then. Let's have a look, shall we?" He wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Cathy's arm and pumped it up, holding her wrist gently with one hand and eyeing his watch. Then, nodding, apparently satisfied, he jotted some notes in her chart and flipped it closed. "You gave us quite a scare, young lady."

"So I've heard," she said, her eyes still on Joe. "Do you know . . . have they found the people who—"

Joe shook his head. "We were kind of hoping you could help with that."

An image drifted through her mind. John Moreno. He'd been there when they'd taken her. The elevator doors had opened, and he'd looked at her with such cold eyes. Then he'd turned his back, and walked away. He hadn't said a word. John Moreno, a man she'd respected, had turned her over to the people who'd stolen her child and tried to kill her. Why? And what would he do when he found out she was alive?

"Joe, who knows I'm here?"

He gave her an odd look. "The cleaning service, the hospital staff, me—"

She interrupted. Impatient. Afraid. "Does Moreno know?"

"Of course he does. He sends his best wishes by the way."

Fear coursed through her as the words tumbled over and over in her mind. Moreno knows. Moreno knows. MorenoMorenoMoreno . . . She'd been here for three days already. Three days during which he could easily have arranged her death. What was he waiting for? And how much longer did she have before somebody came along to finish the job?

"I have to get out of here." She swung her legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the thin hospital gown that was her only protection against the cool hospital air. But the sudden movement sent a wave of dizziness through her and she paused, gasping, fighting down nausea.

"Now wait just a minute." In an instant, the doctor's hands were on her shoulders, and he eased her back down against the pillows. "You aren't going anywhere." Slipping an arm behind her knees, he swung her legs back up onto the bed. "It'll be at least another couple of days before you're anywhere near ready to get out of this bed."

No. Not days. If Moreno knew she was still alive, she might not even have a couple of hours.

"Joe, I have to get out of here. You have to help me get out of here."

There was an edge of panic in her voice, and Joe glanced uneasily at the doctor.

"Take it easy, Radcliffe." His voice was calm, but his eyes were worried. "You're safe here. I got a couple of guards posted at the door. Nobody's going to hurt you."

Desperation pulsed in her blood and made her voice hoarse. "Joe, you don't understand."

The doctor looked from her to Joe and back again. "Mr. Maxwell, would you mind giving us a minute alone?"

Joe nodded. "Sure thing." He touched her shoulder in a move that was probably meant to be reassuring but which only served to heighten her unease. "I'll be right outside the door if you need me."

She tried to swallow her fear, tried to look grateful even as she searched for a means of escape. "Thanks, Joe."

He stepped outside, and the doctor waited for the door to close before turning back to her. "So what did you do with the baby?" he asked, and the bluntness of the question made her gasp.

"My baby?"

"You're in a hospital, Miss Chandler. We're pretty good at figuring these things out." His gaze was sympathetic. He closed her chart and set it aside. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, eying her earnestly. "I haven't said anything to your friend out there, but I need to know what happened. If there's a child at risk—"

"But I don't . . . know what happened."

He shook his head. "You don't really expect me to believe that, do you?"

"No, I mean . . . I had a baby." Vincent's baby. The miracle of it made her breath hitch in her throat. But now there was an empty place in her soul where her child had been. She looked away from the doctor's probing gaze. "I don't know where he is now."

"Miss Chandler, I know this isn't easy." His pager went off, and with an irritated grimace he pulled it off his belt, glanced at it, and then dropped it in his pocket. "Look. I can understand that you might not want your friends and coworkers knowing what happened to you while you were . . . away. But abandoning a baby, even under such dreadful circumstances—"

Anger stiffened her spine at the implication. "I would _never_ abandon my baby."

He watched her, his gaze speculative. "You don't seem like the type of woman to throw a baby in a dumpster." He shook his head. "No, I'm thinking you left it somewhere. Somewhere you thought it would be safe. So I'm going to take a risk and give you a few hours to think about this before I tell the police." He glanced at his watch. It had a plain leather band and a dark face. Analog, she noticed. Not digital. "I'll be back in the morning. Maybe you'll remember what happened by then."

He crossed to the door, pausing to look back at her with his hand on the knob. "Please try very hard to remember, Miss Chandler, because I'm afraid things could get difficult for you if you don't."

But all she could think about was getting out of there. Getting Below. Getting to Vincent.

Joe came back in. "Everything okay?" he asked.

"Fine, Joe. But I'm a little tired. I think I'd like to sleep now."

"Oh. Of course." He hooked his thumb toward the door. "I'll just head back to the office. I've got some work to catch up on, anyway."

She smiled at him. "Thanks, Joe."

"No problem."

He left, and she dropped her head back against the pillows. She was tired. So tired. And she ached. But she didn't mind the lingering proof of the child she'd so recently carried. She made a silent promise to him, wherever he was, that she would find him. No matter what it took, no matter the risk or the danger, she _would_ find him. She rested her hand on her stomach, remembering the butterfly feel of her child's first movements inside her womb.

**xXx**

**xXx**

It was raining, a cold, relentless rain that made John Moreno pull up his collar and duck his head as he hurried toward the phone booth. It seemed fitting, somehow, that the news he had to deliver should be accompanied by such grim weather. He fumbled in his pocket for a quarter. It took two tries to get it into the slot, and once he almost changed his mind entirely. He punched in the digits from memory, then turned and stared out at the rain while he waited.

The phone was answered on the first ring, but there was only silence on the other end.

He swallowed hard. "Hello? It's John. John Moreno."

"You were instructed never to call here."

He hated that the voice on the other end of the line could make him feel like he was five years old, hated that he'd walked into this mess with his eyes wide open. "I thought you might want to hear this."

"So talk."

"Catherine Chandler is alive."

There was a long silence. "Where?"

"Metropolitan Hospital." He knew he should've stopped there, but his mouth kept going. "They found her in her apartment. Two days ago."

"Then why didn't you call two days ago?" The voice was dangerously devoid of emotion.

"They didn't think she would make it. I thought I should wait until I knew for sure."

Another long silence.

"Room number?"

He gave the information, and the line went dead. He was left standing in the darkness with the rain beating down on the glass walls around him while he wondered when exactly he'd given his soul to the devil.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Despite her best intentions, Catherine dozed. When she awoke, the lights had been dimmed and it was dark outside her window. She couldn't see the clock, but she sensed that it was very late. She eased her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, holding on for a moment to get her balance. Her head felt heavy, as if it were filled with thick mud that muffled her thoughts.

The hospital gown was thin, and open at the back, so she pulled a blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. She moved to the door and eased it open. Two uniformed police officers bracketed the door. One, big and bulky, nearly overwhelmed the folding metal chair he sat in. The other was skinny, with a shock of unruly dark hair.

They looked up when her door opened. "Miss Chandler. Is everything okay?"

"Fine," she said. "I just wanted to stretch my legs."

The men exchanged a glance. "We're supposed to keep an eye on you."

Cathy drew herself up, asserting as much authority as she could in the flimsy gown. "Surely a short walk around the floor isn't a problem. It isn't as if I'm going to run away." She indicated the gown, drawing on what the cops likely understood of her from the society pages. "Do you really think I'd want to be seen in public in this thing?"

The bulky cop, whose brass nametag read 'Connor,' grinned. "No, I guess not. Still—" He gestured at his companion. "Lou will come along, just to keep an eye on things."

Catherine sighed. "If you insist."

Connor nodded. "I'd feel better, ma'am. Mr. Maxwell would have my head if anything happened to you."

Inwardly, Catherine flinched. She hated that what she was about to do would probably cost this man his job, but she had to get away before it was too late.

"All right." She nodded and stepped away, not waiting for her escort.

The hallways were quiet, with only the occasional nurse moving about on silent, rubber-soled shoes. Catherine moved slowly, leaning on the hand rail for balance, sustaining the impression that she was still weak, still incapable of sudden movement. She'd made it halfway down the corridor when a door at the other end of the hall opened. A stairwell. A lighted exit sign over the door cast a red glow over a black leather jacket, hardened, craggy features, and gloved hands. Gloves. Nobody in New York wore gloves during the muggy summer months. This was it. She had run out of time.

She didn't have a hope of making it to the stairs. It would have to be the elevator. Where was it? She glanced around, her eyes skipping over numbered doors and past the nurses' station. There. To the left. But could she make it?

At the end of the hall, the leather-clad man froze when he saw her. Did he recognize her as his target? She wasn't going to wait to find out. Then, as though in answer to some unspoken prayer, the elevator doors opened. A doctor stepped out, his head bent over a patient chart, oblivious to the tense scene in the hallway.

Catherine glanced behind her. The lanky cop was there, leaning casually against the wall, his eyes on the doctor. He either hadn't seen the other man or didn't consider him a threat. At any moment, the elevator doors would close and her chance would be gone. She took a deep breath, sucking in oxygen and trying to clear her head. Then she pushed off the wall and ran.

There was a shout behind her and the doctor's head snapped up. He was looking in her direction. She sprinted toward him. He reached out a hand. "Hey!"

She shoved him aside and dashed into the elevator just as the doors started to close. Behind her, there was a sharp explosion, and something slammed her into the back wall. She felt a starburst of pain. Ignoring it, she spun around to punch the bottom button on the panel.

The doors closed on a cacophony of sound: shouts, running feet, some kind of alarm. Catherine bent over, trying to catch her breath. She felt dizzy again. Light-headed. And as she struggled to calm her racing heart she saw blood dripping down her arm. She shifted the blanket, trying to put pressure on the wound, but there was no time. The elevator was dropping fast.

Was there access to the tunnels from Metro?

Breathing hard, she stared at the floor indicator and tried to remember the maps.

**xXx**

**xXx**

The terrible, aching loneliness had become a part of Vincent now, filling his heart and pushing all other feelings aside so that he moved through time in a kind of numbed stupor, acting more out of habit than out of any conscious thought. He had discovered that there was a measure of peace to be found in hard labor, and so he spent hour after hour deep below the community tunnels, shattering granite and limestone alike with a ferocity that kept even his closest friends at bay.

But the nights were excruciating. Exhausted by his labors, but plagued by nightmares, he passed the hours sitting at the table in his chamber with a book of poetry in his hands. He would stare dry-eyed at the words, hearing her voice in his mind and feeling anew the pain of her loss.

So it was tonight. While the community slept, Vincent read—a single candle his only source of light. Like most of his books, this one was well-worn, with tattered corners and thin, delicate pages. And as he read Wordsworth's familiar words, he pictured her sitting beside him, her hair shining in the candlelight.

_But how could I forget thee?__  
Through what power,  
Even for the least division of an hour?_

Closing the book with a snap, he dropped it on the table and tilted his head back against the chair. He sank into the silence without fighting it, unable to find the energy even to seek the companionship of her memory.

It was there, in the quiet, empty corners of his soul, that he first sensed . . . something.

For a moment it confused him, this conviction that he wasn't quite alone. He didn't understand it. Then he thought it might be his son, that maybe he was sensing again the faint echoes of an infant's pulse. Only that wasn't right either, though he couldn't say why. He just knew. Somehow, he knew.

He kept his eyes closed and searched, first within himself, and then in ever-widening circles. The tunnels, then the park, and then further still, into the sleepy nooks and crannies of the city Above.

There. Still distant, but growing stronger with each passing moment. A feeling of . . . fear. Why?

And then suddenly he knew.

Stunned, he jerked upright, and for an instant the shock of his discovery immobilized him. How was it possible? He'd _seen_ her die!

And then he was on his feet and reaching for his cloak.

His sudden departure created a breeze, and on the table, the candle guttered and went out.

**xXx**

**xXx**

The elevator stopped with a jarring thud and the doors slid open on a deserted corridor. Doors lined the hallway on both sides. Catherine stepped out, turned, and looked up at the floor indicator. The numbers were dropping fast. Somebody was coming after her.

She ran. A corridor opened up on her left and she dodged into it. Then another one, this time on the right, and she almost missed it, twisting at the last moment and narrowly avoiding crashing into the wall. She risked a quick glance over her shoulder. Nothing yet, but she heard the sound of running footsteps. Whoever it was wasn't trying to be stealthy. Heavy thuds echoed along the passageways.

She swerved right again when she saw a door with faded black letters. "Mechanical." Grabbing the knob, she turned, pushed . . . and blew out a breath when it gave way with a faint protesting squeal of un-oiled hinges.

Inside she found a maze of pipes and clanging machinery. Steam rose around her, gluing her gown to her legs, but she ignored it, concentrating on keeping her footing on the slippery floor.

There was a shout and then a crash. Her pursuer was closing in. Her breath was loud in her ears. Her chest ached. Blood dripped down her arm, its flow hastened by the rush of adrenalin. The edges of her vision dimmed as thick fog closed in on her from all sides.

_Help me, Vincent! Please! Help me!_

And then she remembered.

He wouldn't come. _Couldn't_ come—because he didn't know she needed him.

Despair settled over her and she stumbled. It had come to this, then. Her fight to get back to him, to survive, would end here, on an unforgiving concrete floor in a dank, steam-filled basement, at the merciless hands of a stranger.

With a choked sob, she gave in to the creeping darkness and the grasping tendrils of oblivion.

And then the wall behind her shattered. She heard a familiar roar, and knew that somehow, through some miracle of time and space, he had found her.

He rushed past her, and she felt the brush of his cloak and the stir of the wind in his wake. There was a scream of pain, and another roar, and she wanted to call out to him, to tell him that she was all right, and that she loved him . . .

. . . but it was already too late. Her body gave in, gave up, and folded in on itself as the darkness finally claimed her.


	3. Chapter 3

The trip passed in a blur of rock and brick and what seemed like endlessly lengthening tunnels. Vincent couldn't run fast enough. His legs, strong as they were, refused to carry him with the speed he required, and he pushed harder, faster, leaning forward, his head down as he charged through little used passageways.

Her fear fed his desperation, lending still more speed to his bounding stride, and out of the corner of his eye he saw more than one sentry blink in surprise as he passed.

And then he was there. He sensed her just beyond the wall, heard her cry out for help in his mind. With a bellow of fury, he threw himself at the concrete. It gave way in a shower of dust and flying debris and he was through, and he needed only a glance to understand what needed to be done.

The stranger's gun was raised, his narrowed gaze intent on Catherine's fallen form. Vincent leapt across the room and smashed the man back against the wall, sending the gun flying out of his hands. The man screamed in pain and surprise, and Vincent roared again before lashing out, silencing another scream with a single furious swipe of his claws.

Thick blood spilled from the man's mouth and throat, filling the air with its warm, coppery smell. There was a last, slow gurgle of escaping air, and the would-be killer slumped to the floor.

Vincent spun back to Catherine. Desperate to reassure himself that she was real, that he wasn't dreaming, he fell to his knees beside her, swept her hair aside, and searched for a pulse. Relief washed over him when he found it. Faint and thready, it beat a rapid tattoo against the sensitive tips of his fingers.

Sudden, fierce joy exploded in him, but before he could react to it, a distant sound caught his attention, and he jerked his head up to listen. He heard footsteps, and the sound of a door being opened, followed by a vicious curse. Whoever it was, they were moving fast. And they were angry.

And Catherine was badly injured, with a wound in her arm that continued to bleed despite his best efforts to staunch the flow. He tore a strip from the thin blanket and fashioned it into a makeshift bandage, tying it tightly enough to apply pressure without cutting off her circulation. Then he gathered her into his arms. She felt so light, so fragile. A wounded bird, all hollow bones and flightless wings.

He slipped back through the hole and into the tunnels. Several feet down the passage, he rounded a bend and paused to send out an emergency message on the pipes. He could feel her blood soaking into his tunic. Holding her close, he set off at a run. He wouldn't risk losing her again.

**xXx**

**xXx**

When he arrived at the hospital chamber, Father was already there, waiting. And Mary, dear Mary, had left her bed to assist.

"Vincent. What's happened?" Father's voice was urgent as Vincent lay Catherine down on the bed. Unable to let her go completely, he stayed beside her, taking her hand in his.

"She's alive, Father."

"Yes, I see that. But how?"

"Later, Father. She needs your help."

"Yes, of course." Father lifted the blanket away from Catherine's injury, eying her pale skin and blue-tinged lips. "She's lost a great deal of blood."

Vincent looked up. "Help her, Father. Please."

But Father was already giving urgent instructions to Mary while he chose the instruments he needed from his bag. It was slow, painstaking work. Through it all, Vincent refused to leave her side, shifting occasionally to help Father or Mary with some necessary task, but otherwise keeping his eyes on Catherine's face. Finally, Father gave her a shot of antibiotics and stepped back from the bed with a weary sigh.

"She's very lucky, Vincent. The bullet missed most of the major blood vessels, and it went all the way through. The wound itself should heal quickly enough. But she's lost a lot of blood—"

"She's strong, Father."

"She should be Above. In a proper hospital."

"No. It's not safe up there for her."

"How did it happen?"

Vincent shook his head. "There was a man chasing her. I . . . stopped him. When I returned to Catherine's side, she was already unconscious."

Father sighed and untied his apron. "You'll need to keep a close watch, and let me know at once if her temperature rises."

"I won't leave her side."

"No," said Father, his eyes going to Vincent's determined grip on Catherine's hand. "No, I don't suppose you will."

"Can she be moved?"

"Moved? Where?"

"To my chambers. I believe she will rest more comfortably there."

"Ah. Well, I suppose it'll be all right as long as you're careful."

"Of course." Vincent lifted her into his arms once more, nestled her body close against the warmth of his own, and left the medical chamber. His entire soul, every ounce of will he possessed, was focused on Catherine, on keeping her alive. He'd thought her dead, had mourned her passing, but somehow she'd been returned to him, and he would do whatever it took to keep her safe, to help her heal.

In his chambers, he left her side only long enough to change into clean clothes, setting the blood-stained ones aside. He ran his fingers over the stiffened fabric. The man responsible for this would pay with his life.

For the first time, the thought of shedding the blood of another gave him nothing but grim satisfaction.

Mary appeared in the doorway, a bundle of clothing in her arms.

"I've brought her some things," Mary said. "She'll be warmer—"

"Mary, how thoughtful of you." Vincent glanced over at Catherine. He'd helped to change her gown the first time she'd come to the tunnels. Then, it had been a simple matter of seeing to the comfort of an injured and helpless human being. But that had been before. Would it make Catherine uneasy to discover he'd performed such an intimate task now? Something told him it wouldn't.

Still, perhaps it would be better . . . He turned back to Mary. "Would you mind? I'd like to see William about some tea."

Mary nodded. "Of course."

"Can I bring you anything from the kitchen?"

"No, thank you." Mary set the bundle down on the table. "I'm meeting Father for tea as soon as I'm done here. And the children will be up soon. They'll want company while they eat their breakfast."

"Yes." He started for the door.

"Vincent."

"Yes?" He turned back, his eyes going automatically to the still figure on the bed.

"She's going to get well, Vincent. Father's a good doctor."

Vincent nodded and left her to her work.

When he returned to his chambers, Vincent set the tea tray down on the table and crossed to the bed. Mary had changed Catherine into a soft gown and brushed the tangles out of her hair before settling her under the covers. She looked like an angel, and for several long seconds he could only stare at her, amazed by the miracle that had brought her back to him.

He bent over her, brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead, and pressed his lips against the exposed skin. He wanted to hold her in his arms, to keep her near—safe and protected from the evil that had nearly taken her from him forever. But he resisted the urge. She would heal more quickly if she rested undisturbed. He poured a cup of tea, selected a book, and pulled his chair close to the bed. He would read to her, the way he had the first time she had come to the tunnels. In time, she would awaken to the reassuring sound of his voice.

He took her hand in his, and began at the beginning.

**xXx**

**xXx**

"What the hell happened?" Joe glared at the officers who stood before him like a pair of guilty kids. "You were supposed to watch her!"

"We _were_ watching! I told you, she came out here, said something about wanting to stretch her legs, and then she just took off. How the hell was I supposed to know she could move that fast?" Defensive, Lou folded his arms across his chest.

Joe caught a fistful of Lou's shirt and twisted, pushing him up against the wall. "What about the guy who shot her? Huh? Why didn't you see him? Why didn't you stop _him_?"

"I _did_ see him. I thought he was some guy coming to visit his wife. Hell, he was carrying flowers! One minute Miss Chandler was walking down the hall, kind of holding onto the railing. I figured she was still pretty weak from the drugs, you know? Then the guy comes out of the stairwell and the doc comes out of the elevator and all hell breaks loose."

"Joe." John Moreno tapped Joe on the shoulder. "Ease off."

Joe hadn't heard Moreno's approach. Startled into releasing his grip on Lou, he spun around. "These jackasses were supposed to keep Cathy safe! They screwed up. And I want to know why."

"I know you do. We all do. But you've got to get yourself under control."

Joe eyed his boss, wondering at the man's ability to keep his cool. "They find anything yet?"

Moreno nodded. "Yeah. In the basement. Doesn't look good."

The basement? Why the hell would Cathy have gone there? "What else?"

"There's a man dead. And a lot of blood. Some of it might be Cathy's."

"But not her?"

Moreno shook his head. "There's no sign of her."

"She could be alive, then."

"I don't know." He didn't look very optimistic. "There was gunfire. If she was shot—"

"You think she's dead." Joe couldn't believe that Moreno would give up so easily on one of his own, but he'd been acting strange for months. Maybe he knew something Joe didn't.

"The cops have people checking other hospitals, urgent care centers, doctors' offices." Moreno shrugged. "But I saw the mess downstairs. Frankly, I don't think her chances are too good."

Joe turned back to the police officer. "I want your report on my desk first thing in the morning," he said. "And it'd better be the best damn report you've _ever_ written or so help me, I'll rip you apart myself." He yanked his tie off as he turned away, heading for the elevator.

"Joe!" Moreno called after him. "Where are you going?"

"Downstairs," Joe snapped. "I've got a crime scene to investigate."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Gabriel's den was small, relative to the rest of the house, and tucked away at the end of a little-used corridor. Furnished in rich fabrics and antique mahogany, and carpeted with deep, silver-gray carpet, it was where Gabriel invariably finished his day. He was alone, with only a glass of dry white wine for company, when the evening news broadcast began. There were the usual teasers, followed by a spate of commercials, and then the anchorman's face filled the screen.

"The NYPD has a mystery on its hands tonight after a bizarre incident at Metropolitan Hospital ended with one man dead and a female patient missing."

A front view of the hospital appeared on the television screen, and Gabriel leaned forward. So, the man he'd sent to finish the job on Catherine Chandler was dead, huh? How had it happened, and why was the Chandler woman missing?

"An unidentified individual made his way to the fourth floor this morning and shot a fleeing female patient. The patient, whose name has not been released, is still missing at this hour, but the shooter's body was found in the basement, dead of apparent knife wounds. Although the patient's body has not yet been found, police believe it unlikely that she could have survived her injuries without immediate medical attention."

The anchorman glanced down at the paper in front of him and then back up at the cameras. "Police also discovered that a section of wall opening into a sewer line access tunnel has been damaged. The broken wall is in a remote location, and hospital administrators say they have no idea how long it's been damaged. Repair work is scheduled to begin next week."

Gabriel ignored the rest of the report. He knew exactly what had happened in the bowels of that hospital. Somehow Vincent had found out that Catherine was still alive, and he'd tried to rescue her. It explained the hole in the wall and the assassin's undoubtedly gruesome death. Only it looked like he'd gotten off at least one shot before he died.

Gabriel took a sip of his wine and licked the tangy moisture from his upper lip with a slow smile of satisfaction.

**xXx**

**xXx**

_Bright lights. Harsh. Painful. Unforgiving. Her feet in the stirrups, her body exposed to people with cold, dead eyes. They move around her. Talking. Watching. Their faces expressionless as they observe her pain. No! She cries out to her child. Wait! Just a little longer! He will come! _

_But her child won't wait. Can't wait. Her body and her baby and Mother Nature are aligned against her. _

_The dead-eyed people move around her like vultures. Only one looks different. The doctor. Is that compassion she sees in his eyes? Or fear?_

_But there isn't time to analyze it, to think about it. Pain crashes through her. Consumes her. _

_She struggles against her restraints. Against the pain. Against the loss she knows is coming. _

_Her child is ripping her apart from within. Silently, she apologizes to Vincent for her failure. She had tried to wait for him, tried to hide the evidence of their child's imminent arrival from these animals who stare at her now with ice in their eyes. Tears course down her cheeks to soak, unheeded, into the thin pillow beneath her head._

_There's one more contraction, one more cascade of pain—and then a thin cry. _

_They take him from her. She catches a glimpse of a tiny red face._

_"Please . . . ! Just let me hold him!" She tries to lift her hands, to reach out to him, but she can't. Her wrists are bound, locked into the hateful restraints. _

_Frustrated, desperate, she lifts her head. Sees the macabre smile of the devil himself as he takes her child in his arms. He nods at the doctor. Says something about finishing it. Then he's gone, and the door is closing, and she's crying out again, tears flooding unchecked down her cheeks. _

_"Please . . . !" She's begging now, her voice weak as the vultures settle in for their death watch. Beside her, the doctor prepares a syringe. "Please . . . ?"_

The dream fades slowly, exorcised by a soothing, familiar touch and a low rumble of comforting sound.

**xXx**

**xXx**

The diner was busy. Businessmen and cab drivers crowded around the worn tables, eating a quick lunch before going back to their work. Waitresses scurried one way with arms full of loaded plates, and the other with credit cards and crumpled dollar bills. The air was thick with the smells of hamburgers, hot grease, and hot coffee. A waitress topped off Joe's mug and moved on without waiting for his thanks.

Nick Starnes sat beside Joe at the lunch counter. He was a few years older than Joe, with the tired eyes and receding hairline of an experienced detective. The two of them had worked a lot of cases together, and Joe had come to respect Nick's skills. But something about Nick's posture this afternoon was making Joe uneasy, and when the detective finally took out his notebook and snapped it down on the counter, Joe almost spilled his coffee.

"Bruises on her wrists and at least one needle mark," Nick said, handing Joe a napkin without comment. "Left forearm."

"The morphine."

"Yeah."

"What else?"

Nick checked his notes. "One set of prints, and evidence of forced entry from the balcony, but no prints on any of the other doors."

"What does that mean?" Forced entry from the _balcony_? What the hell was that about?

"Means they haven't found anything on the other doors yet." Nick reached for a sugar packet.

"That's it?"

Nick nodded and sipped his coffee. "Until we hear from forensics."

"What about the prints on the balcony?"

"They're still checking."

"As soon as you hear something, I want to know about it." Joe emphasized his words with short jabs of his finger against the stained countertop.

Nick raised his eyebrow. "So you can do what?" His pager went off and he reached to turn it off. "Joe—" He hesitated. "You gotta realize. This is not your normal case. You got a woman who disappears for months and turns up at death's door. She sticks around just long enough to come out of it and then disappears again, leaving a trail of blood a blind man could follow. And that dead ends, too."

Nick was frustrated. It was there in his voice and in the tense set of his shoulders, and Joe knew he wasn't helping anything by pushing so hard.

He nodded. "Yeah. Just . . . do your best." Damn. He'd been hoping the forensics would at least give him a scent to chase. This complete lack of evidence just didn't make any sense.

"I always do my best." Nick took a sip of his coffee. Set the mug back down. "I also know my limitations." He tucked his notebook in his jacket pocket. "All I'm saying is I think you might want to check out some other alternatives." He reached for a toothpick.

"Like what?"

"Ever heard of a unit called the two-ten?"

"Yeah. Special crimes, right?"

Nick nodded. "There's a woman on it. Diana Bennett?"

Joe shook his head. He'd never heard the name before.

"Remember the Sayer case last month?"

"Yeah, sure. I remember."

"Bennett was the one that dug out Tony Hernandez."

Tony Hernandez had been the lynchpin that brought an entire drug trafficking ring down. Breaking him had made Moreno a very happy man. "I thought that was the Bureau."

Nick shook his head. "Bennett." He looked at Joe. "See . . . I gotta catch whatever they throw on my plate. But she gets to pick and choose. She's got this 'special arrangement'."

"Why, because she's two-ten?"

Nick shook his head. " 'cause she's good."

"How come I never heard of her?"

"She doesn't like her name in the papers."

"Why not?"

"I don't know. Why don't you ask her?" He pushed his mug away. "I gotta go. You take care of yourself, Joe. Okay?"

"Yeah."

"And do what I told you."

He left then, and Joe twisted his coffee mug on its saucer while, around him, the everyday sounds of the city continued unabated.


	4. Chapter 4

Diana Bennett's building was old and musty, with the grime of decades shoring up its walls. Joe double-checked the address against the slip of paper in his hand and hit the buzzer.

"Hello?" Her voice was cool. Professional. And vaguely annoyed.

"Hi, it's Joe Maxwell. We talked this morning?" There was no response. "Hello?"

"I told you I can't do it."

Joe thought of Cathy, missing, hurt. Maybe worse. "Look, I have no place else to go." He took a breath. "Please?" There was another long silence. "Hello?" He hit the buzzer again. "Hello!"

Finally, she answered in short, clipped words clearly meant to convey her impatience. "Fifth floor." The door lock buzzed open.

He didn't give her a chance to change her mind. She was his best hope of finding out what had happened to Cathy, and the fact that he'd had to step on a few toes and call in a few favors to get her address only made his relief that much more acute.

The elevator creaked its way up, the doors finally opening on a closed gate. On the other side, a woman watched him. Her legs were braced wide, her arms folded across her chest, and if there'd been any doubt in Joe's mind about her mood, one look at her cleared it up. She had the trim look of an athlete, but she hid it behind a bulky, shapeless sweater and faded sweatpants. Still, she was attractive in an easy, nature-girl kind of way, and younger than Joe had expected.

She looked tired. And irritated. And she made no move to open the gate.

"Where'd you get my address?"

"From your watch commander."

She raised an eyebrow. "Call in a favor?"

"A big one." Had it been a mistake? She'd been firm with him on the phone, almost rude, but he'd come anyway, hoping he could change her mind if he talked to her face to face.

"You realize this is completely unfair."

The stiff set of her shoulders and the cold wariness in her eyes did little to encourage him. He sighed. "All I'm asking you to do is take a look at something."

"You're asking me to set aside one case for another, and I can't do that."

He stepped forward, staring at her through the metal grate. "Not even for one day?"

She looked away. After a moment, she reached for the gate and slid it open. "Let me show you something."

She led him to a large desk covered with papers. A bulletin board on the wall behind it displayed an assortment of news clippings and pictures.

"This is where I've been for the last four months," she said. "Meet Sally Rogers." She pointed to one of the pictures. "Ten years old. Grabbed waiting for her mom outside the school." The little girl stood between her parents, an impish grin on her face, dark hair shining in the sun. "A hundred and seventeen days. And nothing. Not even an anonymous tip." Diana's shoulders were stiff, and her eyes, when she glanced at Joe, were dark with frustration. "Until last Sunday, when the guy started sending stuff to her parents. A lock of hair. Piece of clothing. A shoe." She took a breath. "Yesterday a package arrived with a small finger inside."

A shudder went through her, and her voice dropped. Little Sally Rogers couldn't have asked for a more passionate advocate.

"Lab says she's still alive." With a sigh, Diana turned away from the bulletin board to lean against the desk. "What can I do for you, Joe Maxwell?"

He shook his head, his eyes still on the picture. What had he been thinking? Of course this little girl's case was a higher priority than Cathy's. He'd let personal feelings get in the way of professional responsibility, something he'd accused Cathy herself of doing on more than one occasion. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bother you."

Diana sighed, and her gaze slid away, going once more to the photo-covered bulletin board. When she looked back at him, there was a silent apology in her eyes. She gave him a wan smile. "Sometimes I push too hard."

"No," Joe said. "I was wrong to come here. I'm sorry." He moved toward the elevator. He needed time to think, to try to get some perspective on the case before it destroyed him.

She followed him over, resting an arm against the doorframe. "So," she said. "This woman. Was she important to you?"

He nodded warily. "We worked together. But it was more than that."

"Romantic?"

He shook his head. Whatever he might have felt, he'd always known that Cathy only viewed their relationship one way. "Friends."

"And when she disappeared, you asked to head the investigation."

Professional suicide, he knew. He didn't need her to remind him of it.

She shook her head, giving him a sympathetic smile. "Don't tell me. Let me guess. Trail went cold fast. You blamed yourself. Then you worked harder and harder until all your other work suffered."

Somehow, he sensed she was speaking from personal experience. "You could say that."

"And then you began to dream about her, and your mind took these illogical leaps. And you followed absurd leads and intuitions and pretty soon you couldn't think of anything else."

He didn't answer. He didn't have to. She was dead on.

Lifting her hands in a gesture of pained helplessness, she met his eyes. "That's why I only work on one case at a time."

"They're all like that for you?"

She took a breath. Blew it out on a sigh. "Yep." Turning away, she walked back across the loft.

On an impulse, Joe went after her. "Let me ask you something."

She stopped and turned, eyebrows raised.

"What do you make of this? A woman is violently kidnapped. Six months later she turns up in her own bed, a half step away from death's door. Only there's no sign of a struggle, so whatever happened didn't happen there." He shoved his hands in his pockets, a nervous habit he'd picked up years ago and had never quite been able to shake. "Somebody brought her back. Up seventeen flights with no witnesses. And now she's missing again." He glanced at the bulletin board and then back to meet her eyes. "Somebody came after her in the hospital—when only a handful of people even knew she'd been found."

Diana shook her head. "I don't know," she said softly.

"Nobody does. And in three weeks, nobody's gonna care. And that's why I came here." He tilted his head toward her work area. "I hope you find that girl." Without another word, he walked away, pulling the elevator gate closed behind him.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Once again, Catherine found herself swimming up from the depths of unconsciousness. But it was different this time. This time, awareness brought with it the sweet scent of warm candle wax, the comfort of Vincent's fingers wrapped around hers, and the flowing cadence of his familiar voice. She was alive, and safe, deep beneath the city, protected by the stony security of the hidden tunnels and the strength of Vincent's love.

She had thought she would never again hear the low, musical intonations that sounded like warm honey to her ears. He was reading _Great Expectations_, and as she listened, Pip came to life again in her imagination. Vincent had an almost magical ability to give every word he read a depth and color of its own, and listening to him was one of the great pleasures of her life. She recognized the passage he was reading—past the midpoint of the book—and wondered how long she had been unconscious.

"Vincent." Her voice sounded weak, even to her own ears, but he was by her side in an instant, his hair spilling forward over his shoulders, his face haggard with worry and lack of sleep.

"Catherine." He lifted their joined hands and kissed her fingers. "Catherine, I thought—" His grip tightened convulsively.

"I know." She wanted to reach up to him, to touch him, to bury her fingers in the glorious golden hair and pull him close. But she didn't have the strength. "I know."

"I held you in my arms, Catherine. I watched you die." His voice caught on the last word, and she squeezed his hand.

"I felt you with me," she said. "I felt your love. It . . . called to me."

"Even—"

She nodded. "Even there."

He stared at her, stunned. "But how is that possible?"

She had no answer to that. Something, some miracle, had given them a second chance, and if she could bind herself to him forever and never again leave his side, she would do so in an instant.

"Catherine, had I known . . . had I realized—" He shook his head, his eyes going to her bandaged arm. "I would have brought you here."

"You couldn't have known, Vincent." She pulled her hand from his and reached up to catch his chin, urging him to look at her. "You couldn't have known."

He lifted his hand to lace his fingers with hers again. "I tried to find you, Catherine. I searched _everywhere_. I went Above every night—"

"I know." And she did know, because she knew him, knew that his love for her wouldn't let him rest until he found her.

"When I thought you had been taken from me forever—"He shook his head. "It was as though my heart had been torn away. I couldn't think, couldn't eat . . . I was lost."

"Hush," she whispered. "I'm here, now. It's over."

He nodded, and for a long moment they just looked at each other as time moved on without them.

At last, Vincent's shoulders rose as he took in a deep breath. "You're in pain," he said. "I should call Father."

"You can feel that?" It seemed like a lifetime since she'd known the comfort that came with his sense of her.

He nodded. "And in the hospital . . . I felt your fear, Catherine. It drew me to you."

If she had thought about it, she would have realized that the bond was back. Without it, he could not have known to come to her. And yet his confirmation felt like a priceless gift. And now they were together, and she was alive, but there was something missing, something precious.

"He's beautiful, Vincent." Her eyelids were heavy; her body was demanding sleep. But there was still so much she wanted to tell him, so much she needed him to understand. "Our son is beautiful." Her chest grew tight as she remembered the moment they'd taken him from her. "But I couldn't protect him."

It seemed to her as if the tapping on the pipes took on a mournful tone.

"They took him away." In her mind, she saw once more the tiny pink face and the helpless, flailing little hands. "I never even got to hold him."

Vincent brushed his thumb soothingly against her wrist. "We'll find him, Catherine. I promise. "

She had spent so many terrifying months alone, isolated from everything and everyone she had ever known, so long that she had all but given up hope that she would ever see Vincent again. And now, this moment—the feel of his fingers in hers, the sight of his face, even the sound of his voice—was almost dreamlike to her, and she was afraid to close her eyes lest he disappear forever. But her body seemed determined to thwart her best efforts to stay awake.

"Will you do something for me?" She wanted to feel his arms around her, wanted to rest her head on his shoulder and listen to the reassuring beat of his heart beneath her ear.

"Anything, Catherine."

Careful not to jar her arm, she moved over on the bed, making a space for him by her side. "Will you . . . hold me?"

His hesitation lasted only a moment, a single heartbeat. Then he nodded. He rearranged the pillows and gathered her gently into his arms.

"Comfortable?" he asked, once he was settled. He rested his cheek against her hair, and she thought she'd never before experienced such a feeling of comfort.

"Yes. Thank you."

It was an intimacy he'd allowed only once before, and then with great reluctance. She had sensed his unease then, but hadn't had the emotional strength to honor his needs. Indeed, she'd barely been able to acknowledge her own. That time, he'd held her until she'd fallen asleep, but she'd awakened alone. Now she snuggled close, certain somehow that when she woke up, he would still be by her side.

"Catherine."

His low voice rumbled through his chest beneath her ear. She was nearly asleep, drifting in a land of moonbeams and shadows, but something in his voice roused her, and she struggled to open her eyes, to focus on what he was saying. "Hmm?"

"I . . . don't remember."

"Remember what?"

"We have a child, Catherine. A son. And I don't remember—" Taking a long, slow breath, he asked, "Did I . . . hurt you?"

She felt the tension in him, the worry. Her arm throbbed beneath the layers of bandages, but she pushed aside the pain and shifted so that she could look into his eyes. "Don't you know by now, Vincent? You could never hurt me."

In fact, he had been almost achingly tender, and the memory of those few hours in his arms had helped sustain her through the months of loneliness that came after.

"I'm only sorry," she said softly, "that you can't remember."

His left arm was wrapped around her waist, and he stroked her ribs with his thumb. "Perhaps, Catherine . . . perhaps there will be another time." His voice was low, with a note of uncertainty mixed into the warm tones.

She smiled, relaxing against him. "I hope so."

His arm tightened around her, and she closed her eyes. Warm, safe, and loved.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Joe stormed into his office and slammed the door. John Moreno had finally drawn his line in the sand over Cathy's case, and Joe was officially suspended. For a month. During that time, he was supposed to "get his head on straight," as Moreno had so delicately put it. Joe snorted. As far as he was concerned, Moreno was the one with the screwed up head.

He grabbed an empty box and dropped it on his desk. Reaching for the phone and tucking it into his shoulder, he dialed the lab. By the time Frank came on the line, Joe was pacing, his steps taking him to the end of the telephone's coiled cord and then back again. Each time he returned to his desk, his gaze settled on Cathy's file.

"Hello?"

"Frank. It's Joe Maxwell." Glancing at the door, Joe picked up the painfully thin file and dropped it into the box.

"Yeah," Frank sounded tense and uneasy. "What can I do for you, Joe?"

"You got any news on the Chandler case yet?" Calling in yet another favor, Joe had coerced his friend into taking one more look at the evidence in Cathy's case. His currency was running low, though. Pretty soon he wouldn't have anybody left to turn to.

"I'm afraid not."

Frank was usually a jovial guy. In fact, Joe teased him about it sometimes, wondering how somebody who dealt in the science of death could be so happy all the time. Invariably, Frank responded with some crack about not having to worry that his clients would try to shoot him. But now he sounded almost morose, and Joe paused his pacing. Something was wrong.

"What about the prints on the balcony door?"

"Well," Frank said cautiously, "those were interesting. No one seems to know what they are."

"What does that mean? Gloves?" Joe dropped a paper weight and a framed picture of his mother into the box with the file.

"We don't know. We can't tell what they are, yet."

Before Joe could respond to that, there was a sound in the background, and a brief, muttered conversation. When Frank came back on the line, he sounded nervous. "I gotta go."

Joe shoved his hand in his pocket, puzzled. "Call me back. I want to know." He waited for Frank to say something else, but there was only uneasy silence. Had Frank been ordered not to talk to Joe? Was there something more going on here, something sinister even? Joe shoved the ridiculous thought aside with a shake of his head. Maybe he really_was_ losing it. "Frank, look, I—"

"We're even now, okay? Good luck."

There was a click as the line disconnected. Joe bit back a frustrated curse and glared at the handset. When he looked up again, Jenny Aronson was standing in his doorway.

Dropping the phone in its cradle, he went to meet her. "Hi, Jenny. Come on in." He closed the door so they could have some privacy. Then he turned back to meet the grief in her eyes.

She folded her arms across her chest. "I'm sorry I didn't call first." Her was voice tight with suppressed emotion.

Touching her shoulder, he shook his head. "It's okay."

Tears welled in her eyes and Joe reached out, taking her into his arms and holding her while she cried.

"Come and sit down," he said when the flow of tears finally slowed.

She did, laying her coat beside her on the worn wooden bench. Joe knelt beside her and took her hand, offering what comfort he could.

"I thought I would be able to handle this," she said, tears still choking her voice. She took a deep, shuddering breath and then blurted out her next words in a rush, as though hesitation might weaken her resolve. "I came because I wasn't sure who to call for the arrangements."

Joe blew out a breath, his fingers tightening around hers. "We don't know that she's dead, Jenny."

"But you haven't found her."

He shook his head. That much was true, at least. But he hadn't given up hope, and until they found a body, he wouldn't.

"And I read in the paper, about the blood." She hesitated. "And about that other man—"

"Jenny, don't do this to yourself. We'll find her." Joe wanted to reassure her, to convince her that everything would be okay. Only he wasn't entirely sure of that himself.

"And if you don't? What then?" Her voice rose, the words tumbling over each other. "Do we just wait forever? Look forever? And if _we're_ still looking, won't _they_ be looking too? Those men who tried to kill her?"

She stood up, pacing away from him. Then she spun back. "I don't _want_ to believe that she's dead. I want with all my heart to believe that she's still alive out there somewhere." She pinned Joe with a pain-filled glance. "But if we have a service, if we make it look like _we_ believe she's gone . . . maybe we can buy her safety? At least for a while?"

"Jenny—" What she was proposing was preposterous. Impossible. And yet— "I don't even know how to go about doing what you suggest."

"Don't you know anybody who might help?"

There was one possibility, though he couldn't believe he was even considering it—a judge who owed him big for something that had happened years ago, even before Cathy's time. "Maybe."

"Please?" Jenny said. "It's the only thing I can think to do for her. The only way I know to help."

Act as if Cathy were dead. Even though there was still a chance that she wasn't. Could they pull it off? Would it work? And if they did this and she turned up alive later on? What then? With a mental shrug, he brushed aside that worry. It wouldn't be the first time such a thing had happened. And maybe Jenny was right. If Cathy _was_ alive out there—and God knew he hoped she was—they owed it to her to try to help. Maybe Jenny's crazy plan would at least buy her some breathing room.

"I'll see what I can do."

Jenny nodded as her eyes welled with tears again. With a soft oath, he pulled her into a hug and let her cry in his arms.


	5. Chapter 5

Catherine awoke to a small sound at the doorway.

"Vincent—" Father froze like a startled owl as he took in the sight before him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt."

But Vincent was already helping Catherine to sit up against the pillows, his arm around her shoulders as he adjusted the pillows behind her back. "I'm glad you're here, Father. Catherine is in pain."

"Oh?" Father's eyes shifted to his patient. "Catherine? Is that so?"

Uncomfortable at being the source of so much concentrated attention, Catherine blushed. "I am a little sore."

"Well, then. Let's have a look." Father turned to Vincent. "I believe William has prepared a tray for Catherine. Would you be so good as to retrieve it?"

Vincent nodded. "Of course, Father."

When Vincent had left, Father turned back. "I can't tell you how wonderful it is to have you back with us," he said.

"Thank you, Father. I feel like I've come home." She swung her legs over the side of the bed, turning her body to give him better access to the bandages. She was feeling much better, and though her arm still ached, at least the light-headed feeling seemed to have passed.

"You _have_ come home, Catherine." He was unwrapping the bandages, and Catherine made an involuntary sound as he eased away the last layer. "I'm sorry. I know it's painful, but that's the worst of it."

"No. It's okay."

He examined the wound, checking for infection. "You're healing well," he said, pleased. After cleaning it carefully, he reached for a fresh bandage. "I'm going to give you a sling. Now that you're awake, you should try to get some exercise. Don't overdo it, though. You lost a lot of blood. You'll be weak for a while."

"Thank you, Father."

"Catherine—" He paused in his work, his hands hesitating against her shoulder. "I don't think you should return Above."

She thought about staying in the safety of the tunnels, with Vincent. It was a tempting offer.

"Father, there's something you should know."

"Tell me." He'd left her side to repack his bag, but now he stopped and looked over at her, still holding a pair of scissors in his hand.

She took a deep breath. "While I was away—" She dropped her eyes to the sling, took another breath, and pushed the words out in a nervous rush. "I had a baby."

Somehow saying the words to Father made it all real in ways it hadn't been before, as though by not talking about it she had almost been able to pretend it hadn't happened. Only it had. And somewhere out there, she had a son—an extraordinary son who needed her as much as she needed him.

Father stared at her, shocked. "Dear God." He sank into a chair. "Does Vincent know?"

"I know." Vincent came into the room bearing a laden tray. "Catherine spoke of him just before—"

He didn't finish the thought, but he didn't need to. _Just before she died. _

There was a moment of pained silence.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Father still looked stunned, and Vincent bent to pour him a cup of tea.

"I _couldn't_ think of it, Father. My grief was too great, the pain too consuming. _All_ I could think about was Catherine."

"I don't understand." Father accepted the tea from Vincent with a nod of thanks and turned to Catherine. "Where is the child now?"

Catherine shook her head. The words wouldn't come. Memories of the baby she'd carried, of his birth, of watching helplessly while that monster carried away her dreams. It all came back to her with sudden stunning ferocity.

Then Vincent's arms were around her and he pulled her close, tucking her head into his shoulder. Never before had he indulged in such a public affirmation of their relationship, and the fact that he did so now only made her sadness more acute.

"Vincent?" Father's voice. Confused and worried.

"He was taken from her," Vincent said. "Moments after his birth."

"Oh my God." Father's anger was undeniable. "Catherine, I'm so sorry."

"We're going to find him, Father." Vincent's voice was fierce. Determined. "I won't allow that man to raise my son as his own."

"_Your_ child, Vincent? But how—? When—?"

Catherine wondered a little hysterically if it might all prove too much for Father, if he might not suddenly collapse under the weight of the accumulated shocks.

"When Vincent was sick," she said, choosing her words carefully, "and I went into that cave—" She glanced back at Vincent. She didn't want to embarrass him, or make him uneasy, and yet she needed to explain. She thought back to that day. "It was so dark," she remembered. "I've never known such complete blackness."

Vincent and Father were watching her, and suddenly their combined attention was more than she could bear. She closed her eyes, shutting them out while she let the events of that fateful day flow through her mind.

"There was this . . . long tunnel," she said. "It seemed like it went on forever." The chamber was utterly silent, and Catherine thought that if she tried, she could probably hear the flickering of the candles on the table. "Behind me was safety. And a part of me wanted to turn and run back to it. But Vincent was ahead of me, alone and in pain."

She risked a glance at him and found his eyes fixed on her face. "He needed me," she said. "And I could no more turn my back on that than cut off my own arm." She could almost hear the anguished, desolate howls even now—echoes of savage loneliness that had reverberated through the twisted tunnel until she thought she might go mad with it. "And so I kept going, because in the end, there was no other choice."

A rustle of sound brought her head around. Vincent had turned away. He was leaning against the wardrobe, head down, hair spilling forward to hide his face. She wanted to go to him, to comfort him, but she knew she couldn't. Not yet.

"He was so far away, both from me, and from the world around him, that I thought he might already be lost to me, but I couldn't stop. And then all at once the tunnel opened up and he was right there in front of me." Oddly, there'd been enough light in the cave to lighten the shadows and highlight his form. Later, during the long months of her captivity, she had wondered where that light had originated, but at the time, all she was aware of was Vincent.

"He looked so fierce. And the sounds he made . . ." She dropped her head, her eyes sliding over worn books and handmade candles before coming to rest on his fountain pen. These would always be the things that made her think of him, not the deadly claws or fierce savagery by which he too often defined himself. "Maybe I should have been afraid," she said, "but I wasn't."

Across the room, Vincent turned. Their eyes met, and she found she couldn't look away. She forgot Father's presence, speaking only to Vincent now, needing him to understand that for her, there had been no risk in what she'd done. In the end, her deepest fears had been only for him.

"I said your name." She took a step towards him. "But you acted as though you didn't hear me. So I came closer, and then . . . and then . . ." she swallowed hard. This was the hard part, the part she'd been dreading, and yet she owed him the truth, if only to prove that, despite his doubts, he _could _control his darker self. "You charged. Your hand was up, and you were snarling, and for a moment I was afraid you'd gotten so far away from yourself that you might actually hurt me."

He was horrified. She could see it in his eyes. She hurried on, anxious to put his fears to rest.

"I screamed your name, hoping that somehow I might reach you." The image, his lips pulled back to reveal gleaming teeth, his hand raised against her, and that instant of frozen recognition, was still there in her mind. "And you stopped. You just . . . stopped." One minute he'd been bellowing with rage, and the next—

"And then you collapsed. I tried to catch you, tried to keep you from hurting yourself, but all I could do was cushion your fall. Then you stopped breathing, and I couldn't find a heartbeat and there was this sudden, absolute stillness."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Father nod, and she blinked, somehow surprised to see him there.

"The same thing happened the last time," he said quietly. "I thought we'd lost him."

She nodded. "I was afraid of that, afraid—" But she couldn't follow the sentence to its natural conclusion. She looked back at Vincent. "I was desperate. I was crying, and holding you, and begging you not to leave me, and then, somehow, I was kissing you." Her last words trailed off to a whisper.

"It wasn't something I consciously decided to do. I only knew I had to reach you somehow, had to try to bring you back to me." She folded her arms across her stomach, aware that what she had done might be difficult for Father and Vincent to understand, that they might think she'd taken advantage of Vincent in his weakened condition. But that hadn't been the case at all. She'd only been acting on instinct, doing whatever she could think of to try to reach him.

"I don't know if it was my words or the kiss or something else." Her eyes stung, and she swallowed hard. "But suddenly you gasped, and then you reached out to me, and somehow you were kissing me back. After that—" she gestured with her hands as a blush warmed the back of her neck. "Well . . . you can guess the rest."

For several interminable seconds after she stopped speaking, Vincent and Father were silent, and Catherine began to fear that Vincent was angry with her, that he believed her acceptance of his advances when he was in such a weakened state had been a betrayal of his trust. He was still watching her, his eyes fixed on hers, but when he shook his head, it was in amazement rather than dismay.

"That you could do that for me, and at such a time—"

In three steps she was standing in front of him. "How could I have done anything else?"

He put his arms around her, holding her with tender care, and with a relieved sigh, she rested her head against his shoulder.

They stood that way, oblivious to the world around them, until Father cleared his throat.

"Your pregnancy," he said. "Was it—?"

"Normal?" Catherine lifted her head from Vincent's shoulder, taking a step back but staying within the circle of his arms.

Father nodded.

She considered the question, remembering the morning sickness, the lethargy, and the wonder. "He came early," she said at last. "I remember the doctor talking about how quickly he grew."

Father nodded. "Anything else? Unusual symptoms? Complications? Was the child healthy?"

"He's beautiful." In her mind she saw his tiny face again. "And perfect." _And alone_.

Father pushed his empty teacup aside and got to his feet. "Well. Of course I understand that you want to find him. But Catherine, you mustn't go Above."

"He's my son, Father. I won't abandon him." She said it fiercely, unable to believe that Father would even suggest such a thing.

"Perhaps," Vincent interjected calmly, "it would be better to have this discussion after Catherine has fully recovered."

His arms tightened at her waist. A warning? A request? Catherine looked more closely at Father, seeing all at once the dark shadows under his eyes and the exhausted droop of his shoulders.

"Maybe you're right. I _am_ still a little tired." She tugged at the belt of her robe, trying to tighten it one-handed. Vincent moved to help, his dark fur and claws a sharp contrast against the pale fabric.

When she looked up again, Father's eyes were on them, his gaze clouded with worry. "Be careful, Catherine. Please. Vincent was . . . we were _all_ lost without you."

She remembered the hours of lonely silence, the days spent staring at blank walls and a locked door while her baby grew inside her. She remembered all the times she had wished for Vincent and for the simple, undemanding love of her tunnel family. "So was I." She watched as Father reached for his medical bag. "I missed you too, you know," she said softly.

He set the bag back on the table and turned. "I know I didn't make things easy for you when you first came here, Catherine, but you've become very special to me, to . . . all of us. And when I thought we'd lost you, the pain was unbearable."

Moving to his side, she reached out to give him an awkward one-armed hug. His arms came around her and he sighed, hugging her carefully.

"Dear, dear, Catherine." His voice was soft in her ear and rough with emotion. "Welcome home."

When he pulled away, his eyes were moist. He blinked and turned to pick up his bag again. "Make sure she eats, Vincent. She's much too thin."

"Of course, Father." Vincent's voice was patient and respectful, but there was a hint of amusement behind the words.

"Yes. Well. I'm off, then. Samantha's got a touch of a cold and I'd like to check on her before classes begin."

"Of course, Father. Please say hello for us."

"I'll do that." With one more nod, Father left.

Vincent turned to Catherine. "Are you hungry?"

She shook her head. "Not really."

"Catherine. You must eat. You need your strength."

"_You_ are my strength, Vincent. You and our son." Her heart felt torn in two. She was alive. Vincent was alive. Their bond was back, maybe stronger than ever. For these things she was unreservedly grateful.

And yet her child—their son—had been taken from her. Stolen almost before she had glimpsed his face. She'd not even been allowed to feel the slight weight of his tiny body in her arms or experience the wonder of nursing him at her breast. And this loss, this horrible, desperate loss, had left a gaping hole in her heart.

She'd failed in her most basic obligation to her child: to protect.

She moved away, stopping at the statue of Lady Justice that guarded the entrance to the chamber, running her fingers over the edge of the weighted scales. Were it her life being measured, would _she_ be found wanting?

His arms came around her from behind, and he eased her back against the warm strength of his body.

"I feel as though I failed him." Her voice was barely a whisper in the quiet chamber.

She sensed his confusion even before he turned her in his arms so that he could look into her eyes. "How?"

"I should have told you about the pregnancy, should have stayed down here. With you. Where he could have been born in safety."

Vincent let go of her and turned away, his gaze going to the statue. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You were still so weak, so lost. I knew you would worry." Her voice dropped as she remembered the sleepless nights she'd spent trying to decide what to do. "So I put it off. I thought it could wait until you were stronger." She paused as the events that came after flooded her mind. "I was wrong."

For a long time, he said nothing at all, and she waited quietly, knowing she'd hurt him by choosing to keep such important news to herself.

"Perhaps," he said at last, "you were right."

She blinked in surprise.

"Catherine, you are my life. My _world_. I couldn't bear it if something _I_ did caused you pain. A pregnancy—" He turned back to her. "I would have been terrified."

She loved him so much that sometimes she wasn't sure where her soul left off and his began. "But I'm all right." She said it again, reassuring herself as much as him. "I'm all right."

His arms came around her and she felt him take a deep breath. "A truth for which I am eternally grateful."

She was home. And safe. And yet, as she relaxed against him, she knew she wouldn't find peace until they found their son. "I miss him, Vincent. I miss him so much."

"I know," he said. He lowered his head and brushed a kiss against her hair.

**xXx**

**xXx**

A uniformed police officer opened the door to Catherine's apartment. He turned on a lamp and checked to make sure it was secure before waving Diana inside.

"Thanks," she said. "Can you wait outside?"

"Sure." He backed out as she closed the door. "Just let me know if you need something."

Diana leaned against the door and looked around. _What happened to you? _she wondered. _What kind of person were you? And why would somebody want to hurt you?_ She turned off the light. Then she moved across the room, dropping the case file on the back of the couch and letting her purse fall to the floor. She stopped beside a spindly-legged antique desk, her hand grazing the back of its matching chair. Turning, she scanned the darkened room with curious eyes.

It felt peaceful here. Cool, and comfortable, and feminine. The furniture and other pieces had been chosen carefully, with an eye for elegance and simplicity. Obviously, Catherine Chandler had exquisite taste.

When her eyes had adjusted to the shadows, she crossed to the stereo, and in a moment soft music filled the empty corners. A piano sonata. She let the music play and stepped out on the balcony. The view from here was spectacular. New York City at night. The lights of a million lives standing out from the darkness like so many Earth-bound stars. She shook her head at the bit of whimsy and went back inside. What was it about this case that made her feel like she'd walked headlong into a fairy tale?

She moved around the apartment, touching Catherine's things, looking at pictures, trying to get a feel for a woman she only knew from newspaper articles and police reports. _You were strong,_ she thought. _You must have been. A vicious attack left you disfigured and afraid. And yet instead of running away, you came to work for the district attorney. Why? Where did you find the strength? Idealism maybe? Determination? You were quick to see the good in people. Joe told me that. He said you were always there when friends or loved ones needed you. And yet you were very private. You had secrets. Deep secrets. What were they? And why couldn't you share them with the people you loved?_

There was a box at the bottom of the bedroom closet, and Diana dragged it out. She lifted the lid. Inside were the mementos of a lived life. A delicate feathered mask. A pair of ballet shoes. A photo album. A book of sonnets, leather-bound and worn. Obviously very old. She opened it, flipped through the pages, even held it upside down to see if anything would fall out. A picture, or maybe a letter. But nothing did. Disappointed, she turned it over again and opened the front cover. There was an inscription there: "_With love's light wings did I o'er perch these walls_." The rest of the line came without conscious thought. _For stony limits cannot hold love out. _High school English classes had been good for something, after all. But what did it mean? And who the hell was Vincent?

She closed the book and set it aside, reaching into the box again. This time she pulled out a blanket-wrapped bundle. Gently, she shifted the folds aside to reveal a worn doll, its hair and body showing all the signs of a much loved toy. Its angelic expression brought a smile to her face.

"I bet you had a name, didn't you."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent led Catherine through a series of familiar tunnels to a place he knew she would remember, a place where she might find the comfort and peace she needed to continue her recovery. At the threshold, he stepped aside, allowing Catherine to move ahead. He followed her, stopping to set the torch in its bracket by the door. When he turned back, Catherine was standing beside the bed.

"I remember this room," she said quietly.

It was the chamber she had stayed in after her father's death. He wasn't surprised that she recognized it.

"Yes." He nodded. "I thought you might like it here, that perhaps you might feel the comfort of your father's presence in your dreams." And perhaps her father's spirit would also help to keep the nightmares at bay.

"I'm surprised it hasn't been claimed yet. Surely there must be somebody whose need is greater than mine?"

Vincent allowed his gaze to roam the room, his eyes coming to rest on the bed with its warm blankets and soft pillows. He remembered the night he'd held her in his arms while she cried herself to sleep. The memory was bittersweet. "This chamber is yours for as long as you wish to stay," he said at last.

Her head came up, her eyes meeting and holding his. "And if I want to stay forever?"

The suggestion made his heart tremble with joy, but he merely dipped his head in a slight nod. "Then it will be yours forever," he said. _As I already am._

She came to him then, her body seeming almost to glide across the stone floor. She wrapped her good arm around his waist and leaned into him, and he felt her shoulders rise and fall in a long sigh. Resting his cheek against the top of her head, he held her close.

"I love you," she said. "So much."

His arms tightened around her and he drew in a deep breath. "And I love you," he murmured. "With all that I am, all that I have been, and all that I will ever be."


	6. Chapter 6

Joe hated hospitals. He'd never been in one without remembering his father, and the memories weren't exactly happy ones. He'd come to talk to a witness, but now he was in a hurry to put this godforsaken house of death, with its stale air and impersonal sterility, behind him as quickly as possible. His thoughts were on the case as he walked down the hall, and Diana had to call his name twice before he heard her. When he did, he turned around, surprised to see her there.

"I need to talk to you," she said, striding toward him with a determined look in her eyes.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm working." Her tone was matter-of-fact, almost brusque.

"What happened to Sally Rogers?"

She pushed past him into an empty exam room. "We lost her," she said as he followed her in. "And the suspect killed himself."

Damn. An image flashed through his mind of the pretty little girl smiling happily between her proud parents. "I'm sorry."

She gave him a brief nod. "Joe, sit down." She pulled over a chair, flipped it around and straddled it backwards. "I need to know some things." Resting an elbow on the back of the chair, she pushed her hair out of her eyes. "At the time Catherine Chandler disappeared, was she seeing anybody?"

"Seeing anybody?" He didn't know what he'd been expecting her to say, but this wasn't it. He perched on a tall stool and watched her uneasily.

"Dating. Involved."

"Not that I know of. We found some notes in her apartment from some guy named Vincent." He'd assumed it was an old romance, something from before she'd come to work at the D.A.'s office.

"She ever mention him to you?"

"No." He shook his head. "She was real funny about that stuff." Cathy had guarded her privacy more carefully than anybody he'd ever known. He'd wondered about it sometimes, but figured it was her business. If she'd wanted to talk about it, she would have.

"And besides this guy Vincent. Was there anybody else?"

"No."

Diana sighed and folded her arms. "Joe. I want you to clear your mind. I'm going to ask you a question and I'm interested in your very first response. No thinking, I just want you to respond."

"Okay—" What was she getting at? And why did he have this sudden urge to bolt?

"When you remember Catherine Chandler . . . who makes you jealous?"

The question shocked him. "What do you mean, who makes me jealous?"

There was sympathy in her eyes. "You were in love with her."

The words rocked him. He'd never thought, never considered— Oh, God. Had Cathy known? Had she even suspected? If it was so obvious that this stranger had noticed . . .

Diana jolted him out of his thoughts with her next words. "Now, did she ever look at anybody, mention anybody, and just for a second you were jealous?"

Joe shoved his hands in his pockets, and his voice was tight with anger when he responded. "Cathy Chandler was my friend."

"Cathy was pregnant." She paused, her sharp-eyed gaze taking in every nuance of his stunned reaction. "The doctor says she gave birth less than a week ago. Cathy wouldn't tell him what happened to the baby."

He couldn't believe it. Wouldn't believe it. He'd thought Cathy was his friend, had thought she trusted him. And yet— "She never said anything to me."

"I'm just throwing out the possibility here, but what if all this has more to do with the baby than with Cathy?"

"No." And there was absolutely no doubt in his mind that he was right about that. Whatever else might have been going on with Cathy, what had happened to her had been his fault.

"Why not?"

"Look. I gave her a piece of evidence. Asked her to keep it safe for me." His guilt over that still kept him up nights, ruined his appetite, and fueled his search for her despite John Moreno's strange insistence that he drop it. "First she turns up pumped full of morphine, then some guy shows up at the hospital with a gun and she goes missing again. Only this time, there's an eviscerated corpse and what looks like a couple of quarts of Cathy's blood." He took a breath, forcing the crime scene photos out of his mind. When he spoke again, his voice was rough with anger. "There's a connection."

"Of course there's a connection, but you have to keep your mind open to the fact of the pregnancy. What this could mean is that—"

"I don't—" He stopped. Lowered his voice. "I don't know what this could mean."

"Well, consider it, Joe. This could be the piece that makes everything fit." She stood up, pushing the chair away. "Now, I need to know. I need to know who the father of that baby is, who might have wanted that baby." She glanced toward the door and lowered her voice. "I need to know who made you jealous."

Joe felt as though everything he'd ever known about the world, about _Cathy_, had just been turned inside out. She'd been distracted during those last days, and he could tell she'd had something on her mind. He'd asked her about it once or twice, but beyond telling him that she had a sick friend, she hadn't wanted to talk about it, and he hadn't pushed. Now he was thinking that maybe if he had, she might not be missing.

But maybe there was something he could do to make it right again. Without looking up, he said the name that had come to mind the instant she'd asked the question. "Elliot Burch."

She blew out a breath. "Okay."

_In for a penny_— "He wanted to marry her."

"How long ago?"

"Right after she came to work for us." He still remembered the day Burch had shown up with lunch—complete with silver service and a bottle of champagne. The staff had been fascinated and amused. Cathy had been mortified.

"What happened?"

"She turned him down." She'd never told him the details, and he'd never asked.

"Did they stay in touch?"

"Yeah." He nodded. "But I can't believe Burch would have anything to do with this."

"You're positive."

He nodded. "Look, it's no secret that I don't like the guy, but he would never hurt Cathy." _At least_, Joe thought, _I don't think he would_.

**xXx**

**xXx**

tunnel community had a single communal bathing chamber that was the sole province of women and children in the mornings and of men in the evenings. Fed by warm water springs, and lit by a series of torches set in brackets along the walls, it made Catherine feel a bit like a Roman princess when she used it. So when Mary came to her chamber with fresh clothes and an offer of help, Catherine accepted gratefully.

They arrived to find the chamber empty except for Lena and her little girl. Lena looked up from pulling a bulky sweater over her daughter's head and jumped to her feet.

"Catherine!"

Returning Lena's careful hug, Catherine smiled. "Hello, Lena." Then she looked over at her small namesake and tried not to feel a pang of envy that Lena's child should be here, safe and well and happy, while her own was in the care of a cold and nameless stranger Above.

"How are you feeling?" Lena asked, pulling a toy from a small mesh bag and handing it to her daughter.

"Better," Catherine said. "But it'll feel good to be clean again." She was finding it hard not to stare at the toddler, who promptly threw Lena's offering into the swirling water and then howled for its return. With a tolerant smile, Lena leaned over to fish it out again.

Lena dried the toy on a towel and handed it back to her daughter before looking over to where Mary was setting out clean clothes on a rough wooden bench. "Do you need any help?" she asked. "I don't have anything I need to do for a while, and Katy would be perfectly happy to sit here with her toys for a few more minutes."

"Katy?" Catherine looked at the little girl, who had decided that the large rubber ring made an excellent chew toy and was gnawing happily on it. One of Mouse's inventions, no doubt.

Lena shifted uncomfortably, and Catherine saw her exchange an uneasy glance with Mary.

"It just . . . seemed like a good idea," Lena said carefully. "Less confusing, you know?"

The truth lay silent and heavy between them, unspoken but not unheard. Lena had taken to calling her daughter Katy in order to protect Vincent from repeated and painful reminders of Catherine.

"Well, now," Mary said brightly. "Let's do something about that hair."

With that, the tension was broken, and Mary and Lena set about helping Catherine bathe. The warm, swirling water felt wonderful, and generous applications of soap and shampoo soon had Catherine feeling human again. Afterwards, Catherine thanked the other women and sent them on their way. Mary fussed, claiming Father would be upset with her if she let Catherine walk unescorted—not because he thought she might get lost, but rather because of her injury. But Catherine stood her ground, assuring Mary that she felt fine, and finally, reluctantly, Mary headed off to the dining hall with Lena and Katy.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent was sitting in a chair beside the bed when Catherine reached her chamber. He had a book in his hands, but he closed it and set it aside when she came in.

"You look . . ." He trailed off, coming across the room to meet her. His eyes held the peculiar intensity they got when something she said or did touched him deeply.

Vaguely self-conscious, she ran her fingers through her hair. "Rather like a drowned rat, I suspect." She set her things down on the bed and turned into his arms. There was a smile in his eyes when she looked up at him.

"What?" she asked.

"I was just thinking of that long ago night in the park," he said. "Do you remember the rain?"

She did. It was one of her happiest memories, one that had gotten her through many a lonely night. "You must have thought I was crazy."

"No." He shook his head. "I only thought how beautiful you were."

She blushed and dropped her head, but he caught her chin with gentle fingers, tilting her face back up until she met his eyes. He held her there for a long moment, and Catherine wondered what he was thinking that made him stare at her so intently. Then, in a move so tender and full of love that it brought tears to her eyes, he lowered his head, and kissed her.

It was a gentle kiss, over almost as soon as it had begun, and yet it made her heart stumble and then race ahead so that all she could do afterward was bury her head against his shoulder and cling to him. Such a simple thing it was. A sweet gesture that, for any ordinary couple, would have provoked no more than a passing thought. But for them it was a milestone, and Catherine knew she would treasure it always.

"Catherine." There was a hint of almost parental concern in his voice as he set her away from him. "Your hair. It's dripping."

"I know. Mary and Lena were kind enough to help me wash it."

"Here," he said. "Sit down. I'll help you dry it."

"Vincent, no. You needn't—"

"It will dry more quickly if the towel is wielded with two hands rather than one," he pointed out calmly. "Perhaps you would like to read while I attend to it."

Recognizing the stubborn set to his jaw, she sighed and sat down in the chair, reaching for the book on the little table. "_300 Days_," she said, looking at the title as Vincent worked with the towel. "I haven't read this since . . ."

"Nor have I," he said. "But it called to me this morning, and I thought perhaps you would like to share it with me."

"I would love to."

She read until Vincent was satisfied that most of the moisture had been removed from her hair. Then he put the towel aside and crossed to the dressing table to pick up a comb.

"Please," he said, coming back to her. "Continue."

He made efficient use of the comb, working the tangles out of her hair with practiced ease, and she wondered how often he performed this simple task for the children. The thought awakened a distant memory of her mother, humming softly while she battled Catherine's stubborn knots with tender determination.

Finished with the comb, Vincent put it away and returned to her side. "Father was concerned when he learned you didn't eat your dinner," he said. "Are you hungry now?"

Catherine nodded. "Ravenous."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Elliot Burch's office was every bit as chic as Diana had expected it to be—masculine and elegant, with plenty of dark leather and bright chrome. The room was large, with the desk positioned at the far end so that visitors had to approach him like peasants seeking an audience with their king.

Elliot himself was an enigma. Fashionably attired in what was obviously a custom-tailored suit, he leaned against the window frame with the casual stance of a man who had nothing more on his mind than an enjoyable conversation with an interesting woman. And yet she'd been here for twenty minutes, and she was no closer to understanding him than she had been when she'd first walked in the door.

"You think I had something to do with Catherine's disappearance," he said now, and he looked almost amused at the suggestion.

Diana looked at him from her place in front of the desk. Her gut told her that he'd had nothing at all to do with it, and that he probably had a dozen of his own people out combing the streets for Catherine right now. And her gut was usually right about these things. "Do you know who did?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Are you going to find out?"

"I suppose." He left the window and moved past her. "If you do your job." The sound of his footsteps disappeared into the thick carpet. "I'm sorry I couldn't help you more."

"So am I." She stood and turned toward him as he opened the door. "How do you feel about Vincent?" She watched him keenly, searching for any sign that he recognized the name, but he only gave her a puzzled glance.

"Who's Vincent?"

"The man she's been seeing for the last two years." There was a flicker of something in his eyes at that, but it was gone almost as quickly as it had come, and when he spoke, his voice was still casual.

"We never discussed him."

"Did you ever meet him?"

"No." He looked pointedly at the open door. "Look, Miss Bennett, I told you everything I know."

"I don't believe you have Mr. Burch." But she wasn't going to get anything else out of him—at least not today. She handed him a business card. "But I would appreciate you telling me the truth about one thing."

"What's that?"

"I want to find him, too. So call me. At least tell me whether or not I'm looking for a dead man." She turned away. "I hate wasting my time."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent held Catherine's hand as they approached the dining hall. It sounded as though most of the community was in there, and knowing how reticent Vincent was in public, she expected him to release her before they reached the entrance. When he didn't, she glanced up at him in surprise, but he just shook his head and pulled her closer. And so they stepped through the doorway together.

There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by an eruption of excited voices as everybody started talking at once. Catherine struggled to make sense of it all, but it was hopeless. All she caught were snippets.

"—when did—?"

"Look everybody! It's—!"

"Father said you—!"

"Catherine!"

"Are you—?"

"—back! We missed—!"

Overwhelmed by their enthusiasm, Catherine hung back, but their love and concern flowed out to her, enveloping her in warmth and affection. The children crowded close, reaching out to touch her, to satisfy themselves that she was real. The adults too, coming up one after another to hug her, and smile, and sometimes to cry while they told her how happy they were to have her back.

Soon she realized that her own cheeks were damp, and that although she was smiling, her heart was breaking a little, too. Somehow, at some point, these people had become her family, and she would do anything for them. Go anywhere. Fight _any_ battle.

She wanted her son to know this family, to grow up here, where he would be nurtured and loved and supported until he became a strong and honorable man, a man like his father. These humble, roughly-dressed tunnel dwellers, with little to offer but a smile, or a hug, or a story, were infinitely more valuable than palatial estates and the power to rule the world.

"Please, everyone." Vincent's distinctive voice carried easily over the excited crowd, which settled into happy silence. "I am afraid we may overwhelm Catherine in our eagerness to welcome her home." He smiled, taking any sting out of the words.

They'd been separated from each other in the rush of greetings, and now Catherine moved back to his side. When he casually put his arm around her, the public affirmation of their relationship made Catherine's heart sing with joy. Smiling, she looked at the assembled group.

"Thank you, everybody. It's wonderful to be back. Your kindness and generosity mean . . . everything to me." She glanced up at Vincent, holding his gaze as she continued. "To us."

His arm tightened around her, and for a moment, she forgot they weren't alone as she sank into the brilliant blue warmth of his gaze.

William's voice broke the silence. "You two planning on eating or are you just gonna stand there and stare at each other all day?" But he was smiling, and his eyes were suspiciously bright.

There was a burst of laughter and affectionate teasing, and people started drifting back to their meals. But there remained in the hall a spirit of celebration, and when, near the end of the meal, William appeared with a cake blazing with candles, nobody reminded him that the day had only just begun.


	7. Chapter 7

The morning sun pushed its first tentative rays through the windows of Diana's loft, covering everything inside with a golden haze. She was already up; she had been for hours. It got like that sometimes, her mind so busy working over the details of a case that it refused to rest. Mark had no such problems. He was still snoring in the next room.

"Did the second set of prints match the first?" Diana held the phone tucked into her shoulder while she snipped out another newspaper photo of Catherine Chandler. "You've had that lamp for a week now."

"Yeah, it looks like it. But Diana, I don't know what they are." Billy yawned loudly.

She suspected the yawn was intended for her benefit, but she ignored it, more interested in his comment than his lack of sleep. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I can't identify them."

"That's what everybody keeps saying, but what does it mean?" She dropped the scissors and pinned the picture on her bulletin board. "How can they not know what they are? They're _fingerprints_!"

"I don't know, yet." She heard a muffled thud followed by a clink of metal against glass. "We're still working on it."

Diana stifled a frustrated curse. "Look Billy, just call Russ and have him take a look at them."

"Isn't he retired?"

"Yeah, but he'll come out for this." He'd be like a grizzly bear whose hibernation had been interrupted, but— "Just tell him I told you to call."

"Yeah, fine. Whatever. Now, what about the memorial service? You want pictures of everybody?"

"Yes, I want pictures of everybody." Stupid question of the day, she thought. Hopefully it would be the only one.

"You want the prints today, I assume?"

Or not. "Uh huh."

"Got it. Anything else?"

"No, that's it."

"I'll see you there, then."

She hung up the phone and took a long drink of coffee, her eyes on the picture she'd just pinned up. _Where did you get those cuts?_ _And what doctor stitched them up? _

Behind her, she heard the faint sounds that meant Mark was up. A moment later, his hands settled on her shoulders and he began to knead the stress-tightened muscles. She leaned back, relaxing into him.

"Did you sleep at all?" he asked quietly.

"A little."

Sighing, he dropped his hands, and a moment later she heard a faint metallic clatter in the kitchen as he prepared his own mug of coffee.

Her eyes returned to Catherine Chandler's grainy image. _Tell me your story,_ she thought. _Tell me what happened to you._

**xXx**

**xXx**

After breakfast, Catherine and Vincent found Father in his study. He looked up from a small piece of paper he'd been studying, concern in his eyes.

"Catherine. Vincent. Come in."

Vincent held a chair for Catherine, but instead of taking a seat for himself, he leaned against hers. Father waited until they were settled before handing a newspaper clipping to Vincent. "This arrived a few minutes ago."

Vincent read it without comment and passed it on to Catherine.

She noticed the picture first, a grainy reprint of herself from some society function a couple of years earlier. It was accompanied by a brief article. She scanned it quickly.

"A memorial service?" She handed it back to Father as a frisson of superstitious dread tingled along her spine. "But why?"

"I thought you might know," Father said.

"No, I don't." Her arm throbbed beneath the bandages, and she shifted it in its sling, trying to find a more comfortable position.

"You _were_ badly injured," Vincent said. "Perhaps they just assumed—"

"Joe would never give up on me. _Never_. And neither would Jenny." But if they hadn't given up on her, why would they plan a funeral? And then suddenly she understood. "What if the service is a ruse? A ploy to make people _think_ I'm dead?"

"Why would anybody do such a thing?" Father asked.

"So that whoever's after me will stop looking." But as she looked at Father, a horrible realization came to her. "But it won't work. Damn it!"

"Why?" Vincent asked.

"John Moreno," she said. "He's dirty."

"The District Attorney?" Father was shocked. "But you've always spoken highly of him."

"I respected him. I thought he was one of the good guys." There was an old-fashioned fountain pen on the table, a match for the one Vincent kept in his chamber. Catherine picked it up, turning it end over end in her hand. "He was there the day I was taken," she said quietly. She put the pen down and pushed it away. "They came after me in the parking garage," she said. "But I ran. I thought if I could get back upstairs, back to my office, I could call for help. "

She remembered her relief when the elevator doors had opened and her dismay when she'd discovered the price of her misplaced loyalty. "I made it to the elevator, and when the doors opened at my floor, he was standing there." She shook her head. "I thought it meant I was safe, but there were two men with him. They'd been hiding around the corner, so I didn't see them until it was too late." The pain of Moreno's betrayal was almost as acute now as it had been then. "And he just turned and walked away. I couldn't believe it."

Without warning, Vincent spun away to pace the chamber with long angry strides.

"Vincent?" She stood up and stepped in front of him, putting her hand on his arm. "There was nothing you could've done."

"I should have been there, Catherine."

"You couldn't have known. The bond was closed, remember?"

"But _why_?_Always_ before that we could rely on the bond, _trust_ in it to keep you safe. And then suddenly it was gone and you were _lost_ to me!" There was such anguish in his eyes as he covered her hand with his that she instinctively leaned closer.

"I've been thinking about that," Father said quietly. "And I believe I may know what happened."

Vincent turned without releasing Catherine's hand.

"Tell us, Father."

"Your pregnancy, Catherine."

Catherine blinked. "My pregnancy?"

"A woman's body undergoes a great number of changes during pregnancy," Father said. "Physical _and_ psychological. It's possible that some of those changes might have temporarily blocked your connection."

Catherine thought back to when Vincent had first commented about not being able to sense her. It had been shortly after his breakdown in the cave. Shortly after . . .

As the memories flooded her mind, Vincent tensed, his fingers tightening almost convulsively over hers. He was feeling what she was feeling, maybe even seeing flashes of the things that she had seen that day in the cave. Giving him an apologetic glance, she turned to Father.

"If it was the pregnancy," she asked, "why didn't the bond come back after the baby was born?"

"It can take several days after a delivery for the imbalances to begin to correct themselves." He seemed quite pleased with himself, as though he had solved a great mystery. "Yes, I think that's exactly what happened."

Catherine felt a rush of relief. She'd been worried that the return of their bond might be temporary. But Father's explanation made sense. Maybe it hadn't been Vincent's illness that had caused their separation after all. At least, not exclusively.

And then, all at once, she realized what she had done.

Had the mysterious, empathic bond been a factor in any other relationship, she would have examined her own role in its existence. But because it was Vincent—because of the very differences in him that she so consistently ignored—she had arbitrarily assigned him sole responsibility for it. And when for some reason he could no longer sense her thoughts and feelings, she had assumed it was because of his illness, and therefore somehow his fault. It never even occurred to her to look for a different explanation—even when a perfectly reasonable alternative was staring her in the face.

How could she have been so self-centered?

Appalled by the injustice she had unwittingly committed against him, she dropped back into the chair, wincing when she jarred her arm.

"Catherine?" Vincent's voice came to her as though from a distance. "Tell me."

But could she tell him? And would he think less of her if she did? She was so caught up in her thoughts that she was only dimly aware of a murmured exchange between Vincent and Father, followed by Father's departure.

"All that time, Vincent. All that time I thought it was you. You couldn't remember things, and you were so weak. I just assumed—" She didn't know how to begin to explain what she had done, much less why she found it so upsetting.

She got to her feet, too restless to sit still. "I've always insisted that you were more human than most people I know, and when you tried to explain that it wasn't so, I brushed it off."

He was so beautiful, so kind and gentle, and he loved her—accepting her for who she was but always encouraging her to move beyond that, to grow and learn and experience the world in every way she could. How could she have done so much less for him?

"It was the same with our bond. I treasured it, reveled in it, sometimes even took advantage of it."

"Catherine—"

She interrupted him with a shake of her head, needing to say all of it before her courage failed her.

"But I never _once_ wondered if there was something about _me_ that made it work!" She shook her head in helpless frustration. "I just accepted it! As though I had some kind of right to it!"

She stopped her pacing to look over at him. "You deserve so much more than that."

He started to reach out to her, but she moved away, pacing again.

"And our bond isn't the only time it's happened," she said, quieter now as she began to understand, _really_ understand, how hard she had made things for him. "Every time something happened that came from that other part of you, I either rationalized it, or ignored it, or took advantage of it—without admitting to myself where it came from or what part I played in it."

She looked over at him again, forcing herself to use the descriptors that gave the otherness about him rare voice. Tawny mane instead of golden hair. Leonine features instead of sculpted cheekbones. Feline grace. Fangs. Claws. Fur. These traits of his were visible, and in her eyes, beautiful. But there were other differences, too, differences she couldn't see or touch, and those were the ones she had ignored.

It was, ironically, a direct counterpoint to Father's own insistence on Vincent's otherness.

No wonder he struggled so. What chance could he possibly have to establish his own identity when he was caught between two such diametrically opposed viewpoints?

Going to him, she reached for his hand. "I once told you," she said softly, "that these were beautiful hands. That they were _my_ hands." She examined the razor sharp claws and thickly furred fingers. "But they're _not_ mine, they're yours. They _are_ different, and they _can_ be dangerous. But they're beautiful, too."

She took a deep breath and looked up to meet his eyes. "You aren't an animal, Vincent." She deliberately chose words he and Father had always avoided—clear, flat statements that didn't disguise the truth. "But you aren't entirely human, either. I know that. And I accept it as part of what makes you who you are. And however you choose to define yourself, know that I love you, _all_ of you, and that I'll do my best to encourage you to seek your own destiny—whatever that may be."

There were tears in her eyes, and in his as well, and when he reached out to her, she allowed herself to be gathered into his arms.

"Can you ever forgive me?" she asked him.

"Catherine . . ." He sighed and rested his head against the top of hers. "You need only forgive yourself."

She leaned into him, wondering that he could dismiss such a terrible injustice so easily.

They stood together until a noise at the top of the stairs brought her head up. Father had returned. He balanced a tray with one hand while he leaned on his cane. "Vincent, would you mind—?"

But Vincent had already stepped away from Catherine to help, taking the tray from Father and setting it on the table. Father settled in his chair and set about pouring tea.

"One of our helpers sent this down," he said. "French vanilla." He handed a mug to Vincent and another to Catherine. "William assures me it tastes just like hot chocolate." His voice was light. Conversational. And Catherine was grateful to him for his tact. But before they could do more than taste the sweet-smelling beverage, there was a scamper of youthful footsteps and Kipper ran in, only to pull up short when he saw that Father had company.

"I'm sorry, Father."

"It's quite all right, Kipper. Do you have a message for me?"

"Oh. Yes." Kipper had been staring at Catherine, but at Father's words he hurried forward, coming down the steps to hand Father a slip of paper. Unfolding it, Father read the brief message.

"Yes," he said. "Please tell her I'll be there in a moment."

"Yes, Father." And with a final backward glance at Catherine, Kipper disappeared back into the tunnels.

"I don't think the children quite believe that you are real," Vincent said with tolerant amusement.

Catherine smiled. "I'm not quite sure I believe it myself."

"So," Father said. "What are we to do about the memorial service?"

Catherine had forgotten all about the service in the discussion that came after. Now her gaze slid back to the newspaper clipping.

"I think," she said, "that it might be best if we acted as though it were true."

"Yes," Father said. "That's what I thought, as well. Vincent?"

"For my part, Father, I'm only glad that she is safe."

Father nodded and pushed himself up from his chair. "All right, then. Those of us who are willing to take part in the illusion will attend the funeral. A good turnout might go far toward convincing people that you really are gone."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Rain, Diana thought. There should be rain, not this bright sunshine that gleamed on the empty casket and made the mourners' tears sparkle like shattered glass. The only good thing about it was that it gave her an excuse to hide behind the dark anonymity of her sunglasses while she observed the arriving guests.

Joe Maxwell already had a seat in the front row beside a pale, slender woman with short dark hair and red-rimmed eyes. Who was she? Friend? Relative? The two of them had their heads together, talking quietly about something while the woman dabbed at her eyes with a limp tissue. Diana made a mental note to ask Joe who she was.

More people arrived. Some came alone, others in pairs or small groups. A few cried openly, but most just stared at the casket for a while before finding seats in the rows of folding chairs. All of them looked shell-shocked. It was an expression Diana had seen before on the faces of those who mourned an unexpected loss.

Many of the mourners wore clothes from a bygone era. Faded, worn, and ill-fitting, the outfits looked like they'd been culled from garbage dumpsters and homeless shelters. Who were these people? And where did they come from? The distinguished-looking older gentleman especially, the one who stood for so long by the graveside. Was this the elusive Vincent?

Diana shook her head, discarding the idea. He didn't have the look of a bereft lover. Oh, he looked sad. And wise in the ways of the world. This probably wasn't the first time he'd been to a funeral such as this one. But he wasn't desolate, and Diana imagined that the Vincent who had written such beautiful words to his Catherine would be virtually unable to function beneath the weight of her loss.

Elliot Burch arrived, alone and late, in a chauffeured limousine. He stared at the casket for a long time, and there was something lost and broken in his eyes. He, too, had loved Catherine Chandler.

She must have been an extraordinary woman to captivate three such men—one who gave her a fulfilling career, one who gave her Shakespeare, and one who would have given her the world. Had it been difficult for her to choose among them? And what was it about Vincent that had ultimately captured her heart?

Maybe, Diana thought as the simple service got under way, Vincent hadn't been able to bring himself to come at all. A man who loved a woman as much as he seemed to have loved Catherine might find it impossible to accept her death. The thought was an interesting one, and she looked up, her eyes drifting past the mourners to the city beyond.

No, Vincent wasn't here. Vincent was out there, somewhere. Searching for his Catherine.

**xXx**

**xXx**

While the rest of the community attended the service Above, Vincent and Catherine visited the Chamber of the Falls. The stone cavern with its high cliffs and tumbling waterfalls was a magical place, a safe place.

Vincent sat on the floor with his back against a granite boulder and his arm around Catherine, cushioning her from the unforgiving stone. He sensed that she was deeply content, and yet there were shadings of sadness too, like dark threads in a golden tapestry. Those dark places were with her always, now, and he knew that they would remain until their son was safely home.

He reached into his pocket and gathered her necklace in his hand. The crystal caught the torchlight, fragmenting it into a rainbow of colors as he held it out to her.

"My necklace!" She sat up and turned, cupping her hand around it. "I never thought I'd see it again."

That she placed such value in his gift warmed him. "I found it," he said, "in a cave, far beneath the catacombs."

Her eyes darkened with concern. "You went back?"

With gentle hands, he lifted the chain over her head and settled the crystal into place against her throat. "I thought perhaps I would find some sense of you there." He had hoped he might also find his memories, but instead he'd found only shadows.

There were marks," he said, "in the dirt. Where we—" He looked away, his eyes going to the waterfall. "I found it there. And it reminded me of how your love opened the world for me." He had come dangerously close to giving in to his darker side that day, to leaving his very humanity in the ancient dust of that dark and silent cave. "Finding your necklace, and remembering all that it meant, gave me the strength to go on."

"Then I'm glad I lost it," she said softly. "Because if you hadn't found it, and I had lost you . . ." She lowered her head to his shoulder. "I can't lose you, Vincent. Not ever again."

"Never again," he agreed. His mouth brushed against her hair, and when he inhaled, her scent filled his lungs. He closed his eyes, every sense attuned to the wonder of her presence in his arms.

For a while, they listened to the underground river in silence, but there was something he needed to say to her, something he'd never said before—not because he hadn't wanted to, but because it was so important that she be free, always, to pursue her own destiny.

"Catherine," he said, and her name felt like moonbeams on his tongue. "There was a moment, when the way was still new, and I was afraid to hope. You put your hand on mine, and nothing ever felt like that to me. Like your touch."

He still felt that sense of wonder sometimes. She would touch him, or smile at him, and for an instant it would be as if he were no different from other any other man.

"I wanted to weep. But you turned. And you looked at me. Your eyes were filled with dancing light, and I was bathed in your warmth. And I believed, in that moment, that even for me all things were possible. In that moment, in your light, I felt what it means to be beautiful."

Catherine tilted her head to look up at him. "You _are_ beautiful," she said. "And all the things you want _are_ possible."

Her eyes were clear and bright, and as he looked into them, he thought he saw eternity in their depths. He pressed a kiss against her hairline.

"We promised always to share the truth," he said. "Always. But there is a truth beyond anything . . . beyond everything I've ever known, ever dreamed. A truth—" He lifted his gaze to the waterfalls with their shifting patterns of light and shadow. "—that I could never share with you."

"Why?" There was no accusation in her voice, only curiosity.

"Because in sharing it, I risked tying you to me forever."

"And you didn't want me?"

"No." He was quick to reassure her. "Never that." Her uncertainty disturbed him. It was unlike her to have such doubts.

"These tunnels are my home, Catherine. My destiny. I will never live beyond their boundaries. But you—" despite himself, his arms tightened around her. He knew what he was about to say was true, and yet his heart cried out against it. "You deserve to be free."

"Vincent . . ." She waited until he met her eyes. "Don't you understand yet? When I'm with you is the _only_ time I feel free, the only time I'm truly happy."

For an instant, it was all he could do not to crush her against him. Did she know how deeply she affected him? He didn't have the words to tell her, and yet somehow, looking into her eyes, he sensed that she understood.

"Now." She settled back against him again with a small sound of contentment. "What is this truth you've been keeping from me?"

"It is the truth," he said, drawing her close and resting his cheek against the silky softness of her hair, "of how deeply I love you."


	8. Chapter 8

Catherine had the dream again, her fear and anguish pulling Vincent from his own rest to go to her. She never remembered it in the morning, never knew that he came to her, chasing away the demons with his quiet words. But afterwards, when he was certain she was asleep, he often found himself unable to return to his own rest. He never spoke of it, and yet her unhappiness weighed on his heart. And so he would sit, thinking, until the new day began.

Tonight the nightmares had come earlier than usual and with greater force, leaving her tearful and trembling in his arms. It had been a long time before he'd been able to bring himself to leave her side, even after he was certain the nightmare had passed.

When he finally returned to his chamber, he sat in the chair, his mind still on Catherine. In many ways, she was the same woman he had met more than three years ago—strong, capable, and warm. But there were noticeable differences. She doubted herself more. And worried more. And she blamed herself for what had happened to their son. The self-confidence she had worked so hard to achieve had suffered a great blow, and though he would do everything in his power to help her find her way back, he feared it would be a difficult journey.

A sudden burst of anger brought him to his feet. Content at first to pace silently from one end of his chamber to the other, he soon found the space too confining, too restrictive. He picked up his cloak. He would go Above. Perhaps there he would find a measure of peace from the consuming fury he felt toward the man who had done this to Catherine, the man who had hurt her and stolen their son.

Leaving the tunnels behind, he walked quickly, his long strides eating away the miles. He was barely aware of his surroundings, depending on instinct to keep him hidden from those who would do him harm. As always, the city was quiet at this hour. Few people lurked in the shadows, and those who did ignored the cloaked figure that hurried past them and disappeared into the night.

And then, from somewhere deep inside his mind, Vincent sensed the steady beat of a human heart not his own. Nor was it Catherine's. He _knew_ this, knew that she rested safely deep beneath the city. He paused, his eyes scanning the skyline even though he knew that what he sought would only be found within the confines of his own thoughts. What he was feeling, he realized after a moment, was the steady rhythm of an infant's pulse.

His son.

He followed the rhythmic beat, its faint call carrying him through the city until he found himself standing in front of a familiar building. For a long moment, he stared up at the place where Catherine had nearly been taken from him. It was a place of horrors, of almost unbearable memories. He didn't want to be here, but the demanding beat of his son's pulse drove him to the rooftop.

In his mind's eye, he relived that night. He saw the helicopter and the dark-haired man. He felt his cloak whip against his legs. And he heard . . . Catherine's voice. Behind him. He spun, and she was there again, falling. The memory was so vivid that he moved to catch her in his arms.

But all he caught was air.

He remembered all of it—the throb of the chopper blades, the high, thin cry of his infant son, the fading light in Catherine's eyes—and the poem._Though lovers be lost, love shall not._

Staring up at the night sky, Vincent murmured the rest of the words to the stars.

"And death shall have no dominion."

And as he looked out over the city, Vincent knew what he had to do.

**xXx**

**xXx**

It was nearly dawn when Vincent paused at the entrance to Catherine's chamber. He hated to wake her, but he had an urgent need to speak with her. He stepped inside.

Two candles were still lit on the bedside table, their soft glow pooling over Catherine. A hand-sewn quilt outlined the gentle curves of her body, the faded patchwork rising and falling with the steady rhythm of her breathing.

She looked so small and delicate, almost fragile, and yet he knew how strong she was, how courageous. She had suffered such terrors, such unbearable loneliness. And she had survived all of it to bear his son. They had a son, and yet he had no memory of what it had been like to love her—of how she had felt in his arms, or the texture of her skin against his, or the womanly secrets that he'd read about but never thought to experience for himself.

He remembered the meeting in Father's chamber and the sensation of intense pleasure that had flooded their bond when she'd remembered that night in the cave. And suddenly he wanted to experience that pleasure first hand, to take her in his arms and lose himself in her softness.

The wave of desire surprised him with its intensity, and without thinking he reached out, touching her shoulder with the tips of his fingers. The way she was lying, with her injured arm resting on a pillow, left her side exposed. Carefully, so as not to wake her, he let his fingers trail a path along the framework of her ribs and the dip of her waist before coming to rest at her hip, his hand curving itself, almost instinctively, to her shape.

There was no sound—no clatter of the subway, no music of pipe chatter, not even the hiss and splutter of burning torches—to disturb the silence and bring him back to himself. There was only Catherine, and his love for her.

And beneath his hand, her body felt like nothing he'd ever felt before.

He stared down at her. Her lips, slightly parted in sleep, were a delicate shade of pink, her eyelashes dark against her cheeks. And her hair spread out across the white pillowcase like a pool of honey in the snow. Drawn by her beauty, he bent over her with the notion that he had to kiss her—had to taste her lips, and bury his fingers in her hair, and feel the soft curves of her body against the hard planes of his own.

But before he could act on the impulse, she mumbled something unintelligible and rolled to her stomach, dislodging his hand so that it slid down against a part of her he'd never touched and never thought to touch—a soft, tender, utterly forbidden place.

For a moment he was too startled to move. Then he gasped and pulled away from her, away from the surge of passion that threatened to engulf him. Three long strides carried him to the chamber entrance, where he sagged against the wall, sucking in air and contemplating the ceiling while he struggled to bring his body back under control.

He knew what it was to desire a woman. At least, he knew as much about such things as Father's limited library and Devin's childhood forays Above would allow. And he had desired Catherine nearly from the beginning. But always in the past he'd been able to subdue those feelings beneath the weight of his fears for her safety.

Risking a glance in her direction, he allowed himself a sigh of relief when he saw that she still slept soundly, unaware of the strength of his response to her. He waited, breathing deeply, until the hunger subsided. Only then did he approach the bed once more.

"Catherine . . ." She moaned softly in her sleep, a quiet, lonely sound that made Vincent's heart turn over. He brushed the hair away from her face. "Catherine, I must speak with you."

She rolled over and opened her eyes, blinking in the dim light. "Vincent? What's wrong?" Her fingers brushed across his chest before he caught them in his own. "You've been Above."

"I couldn't sleep." Her gown was tangled, the collar snug against her neck on one side and almost off her shoulder on the other.

"Where did you go?"

Vincent forced his eyes away from the exposed skin, but his fingers itched to touch her. "Nowhere, at first, and then . . . Catherine, I sensed a heartbeat."

Her eyes widened and she pushed herself up against the pillows. "Was it his?"

"I believe so."

"Where? Did you find him? Did you see him?" She leaned forward eagerly.

He shook his head. "No. I only sensed that he is alive. And near." He straightened her blankets, pulling the covers higher and telling himself he was just making sure she was warm. "I found myself back at the place where I first found you. The place where you—"

"The place where I died." Her voice was soft.

"Yes." Her skin glowed with reflected candlelight. Shaded in peach and gold, it called out for his touch.

He forced his mind back to their conversation. "The memory was so real. I felt your presence and his heartbeat." He hesitated. Thinking back. "And I saw the face of the man who took him."

"Dark hair? Narrow face? Thin?"

"Yes." Beside them, the candles flickered in their holders. "Catherine, there must be someone who could help us."

"Joe," Catherine said immediately. But then she shook her head. "No. He'd go straight to Moreno."

"Perhaps I could warn him."

"He'd still go to Moreno. He doesn't know you. I don't know how he would react—" She reached for his hand. "But he would believe me."

But Vincent couldn't take that chance. "Father is right, Catherine. The risk is too great. If they learn that you are alive, it would endanger the entire community." He was willing to risk his own life, but not the lives of the people he loved, and especially not Catherine's.

For a moment he thought she might argue with him. Then she sighed and looked away.

He rubbed his thumb along the back of her hand. "There must be somebody else."

"Maybe there is," she said. "Elliot."

"Burch?"

"I trust him," she said. "And he loves me. He would help. I'm certain of it."

"Elliot Burch is a powerful man. He could destroy us."

She shook her head. "I think he's the only one who _can_ help us."

"Then I will speak with him."

She was frustrated. And worried. He sensed it in her touch and through their bond. It was a feeling he knew well. But he said nothing. The risks he took now were necessary if they were ever to find their son.

"When will you go?" she asked.

"Tonight," he said. "As soon as it is safe."

"Vincent . . . be careful."

He saw hope in her eyes. But he also saw fear. And love. "How could I not?" he murmured, "when I know that you are here awaiting my return?"

**xXx**

**xXx**

"Elliot Burch?" Father's dismay was almost palpable. He'd been in the midst of setting up a game of chess when Vincent had told him of his plans. Now he set the rook in its place and straightened up to stare at Vincent.

"He is our only recourse." Vincent picked up one of the knights and turned it end over end in his hands while he waited for the inevitable outburst.

"Look here, Vincent. You want to find your son. And I can understand that." Father sat down heavily. "But at what risk to yourself? What risk to this world?"

"The risk is only to myself. Our world is safe."

"That's not true." Father shifted a stack of books out of the way. "Elliot Burch almost destroyed us once. How can you be sure he won't do it again?"

"Elliot Burch has had a thousand chances to betray our world."

"Even so, how can you possibly trust him in this?"

Vincent set the chess piece down. "The child is alone, Father. He needs me." Catherine's face flashed through his mind, along with the sadness that seemed always to lurk in her eyes. "And he needs his mother."

"And what of us, Vincent? What of the people who need you _here_?"

Vincent looked up, holding Father's gaze across the table. "I didn't come here for your counsel," he said quietly. There was steel in his tone, and Father dropped his eyes.

"Believe me, Vincent. I support your purpose."

"But you do not give me your blessing." It was a disappointment, but not a surprise. Father's first priority was always the safety of the community.

"I think . . ." Father hesitated for a long moment. Then he took a breath. "The child may be lost to us."

"The child," Vincent said fiercely, "is my _son_." He turned away, ignoring Father's protest. "And now if you will excuse me, I must prepare."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Diana took a fresh mug of coffee back to her desk and set it down on the stained blotter. Tugging her faded gray sweatshirt down over her hips, she stared at the bulletin board, wondering again about the people in Mark's photos. Who were they? And what had they been to Catherine?

She picked up the book of Dylan Thomas poems and leaned against the desk. When she'd found the book in Cathy's apartment, it had opened almost of its own accord to one particular poem. Diana read it aloud, trying to divine the deeper meaning hidden behind the words.

_"Though they go mad they shall be sane;  
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;  
Though lovers be lost love shall not;  
And death shall have no dominion."_

Her gaze shifted to the photo of Catherine lying as she'd been found in her apartment, her body placed with such loving care upon the soft coverlet of her own bed.

_"And death shall have no dominion." _

It was an interesting quote. Especially if it turned out that Cathy Chandler was still alive out there somewhere.

**xXx**

**xXx**

"Then issue more partnership shares," Elliot said. He rounded the crowded conference table and stopped beside the window. It had been a long day, and it was getting late. They'd been going over figures for hours—balance sheets and income statements and profit/loss analyses. His eyes were starting to cross, and numbers were dancing around in his head like a swarm of demented dragonflies.

"It's no good, Elliot." George Walker shook his head. "Share values are low enough as it is. You can't risk any more dilution."

"Gentlemen. Ladies." Elliot scanned the assembled group of bankers and accountants. "There are twenty-two buildings in this city with_my_ name on them. And you're telling me now that Elliot Burch is a bad credit risk?"

"Well, no," Burton Fitch said. "But people are worried. Burch Properties Group is at a bit of a low ebb right now." Fitch, with his thinning hair and dark suit, looked apologetic.

"Elliot, is there something you're not telling us?" George asked. "Because if you're devaluing shares for a buyback—"

"What are you talking about? Burch Properties is worth what it was always worth."

Walker shook his head. "That's not true. The settlement on the casino fire will probably exceed liability coverage by a figure in the high tens of millions." It was a reminder Elliot didn't need. Even if investigators proved it was arson, his name would always be linked to the two hundred innocent people who had died that day.

"And taking everything into account," Fitch was saying, "the liquidation value today of Burch Properties is—" he paused to check the numbers again, "—about sixty percent of what it was six months ago."

"And that's not counting the cash drain with the D.A.'s restraining order on the Battery project," George said.

"I thought you said we could finesse Moreno."

"It's not just Moreno," said George. "It's coming from everywhere.

Fitch rifled through his notes. "Selling of group shares is across the board. Overseas banks, pension funds, you name it."

"Elliot," George said. "There _can't_ be a single hand behind this. No one man has _that_ kind of power."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that, gentlemen." The voice came from a man in the back of the room who'd been silent until now.

Elliot looked up, meeting his security chief's troubled gaze. "What are you saying, Cleon?"

"I'm simply saying there _is_ someone out there. And he's taking you apart. Piece by piece."

A chill ran up Elliot's spine, even though the news came as no real surprise. He already knew the man responsible for Cathy's death was dangerously powerful. And it was patently obvious he didn't appreciate Elliot's determination.

"Where do you hear this, Mr. Manning?" George asked. "On the street corner?"

"I hear it from people like you, Mr. Walker. People who have nice jobs in banks. Nice families in the suburbs. People so scared, they hang up the phone before we get out the question." There was a subtle warning in the security chief's voice, a reminder that there were people in the world who were even more powerful than Elliot Burch.

Burch sighed. His obsession with finding Cathy's killer was going to ruin him, but he couldn't let it go.

"I think you boys should work with Cleon on this thing." He looked around the room, making eye contact with each of the people who had spent the day trying to convince him he was asking the impossible. "There_is_ a connection out there. Please go and find it."

He turned away to stare out over a city he had once thought he would love forever. But he couldn't live in a place where every waking moment brought with it memories of the woman he had loved and lost. After he found her killer, he would leave New York. And he would never come back.

Elliot watched his people gather their things. From across the room, Cleon stared at him. He was worried, Elliot knew. He thought Elliot was pushing too hard, taking too many risks, and that his obsession would destroy him. Burch sighed and dropped his eyes as Cleon left. He might very well be right.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Elliot stayed in his office far into the night. He was standing by the window, staring into the darkness and thinking about Cathy, when a sound in the outer office distracted him, and he turned. At this hour, he should have been alone.

He crossed to his desk and opened the top drawer. There was a handgun there, tucked away in the very back, and he pulled it out. He slid off the safety and crossed to the door, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet.

The outer office was empty, but when he turned the corner, he saw one of the janitors emptying the last of the day's trash. Relieved, he nodded. "Evening, Arthur."

Arthur nodded politely and went back to his work. Elliot watched him for a moment before returning to his office. He was jumpy, and he scolded himself for his paranoia as he reached for the drawer pull. Whoever was after him wouldn't pursue him here. That person wanted him to suffer. He was about to put the gun away when something, a movement, a shadow, or maybe simple self-preservation, made him lift his head.

A tall, cloaked figure stood in the darkened doorway. It had appeared silently and unannounced, like a spectre out of a horror movie.

"Elliot Burch?"

He gripped the gun and straightened, straining to see through the shadows. "Who the hell are you?"

"No one to fear." The voice was male and cultured, without noticeable accent.

Elliot kept his gun ready as he moved across the room. Without taking his eyes off his visitor, he bent to switch on a lamp.

"Don't. Please."

Slowly, Elliot lowered his hand to his side. The darkness put him at a disadvantage, and yet for some reason he felt he had nothing to fear from this man. "How do you know me?"

"We shared something." A siren wailed in the distance, its pitch faint and distorted this many floors above the street. "A friend. Somebody very dear to us both."

"Who?"

"Catherine." The visitor paused. Then, "My name is Vincent."

"Vincent." Burch knew that name. Diana Bennett had mentioned it. "You know about me from what she told you?"

"Yes."

The answer implied intimacy between the woman he'd loved and this stranger, and Elliot swallowed against a stab of jealousy. "What do you want from me, Vincent?"

"I need your help."

"Why should I help you?" Tension knotted his shoulders and tightened his grip on the gun.

"I do not do this for myself." There was a pause. The shadowy form shifted uneasily. "I saw the man who killed her."

The news stunned Elliot. He lowered the gun to his side. "You were—"

"I was there, with her, at the . . . end." Vincent's head dropped. He looked away. "I was too late."

Like a bloodhound who'd just scented prey, Elliot forgot about everything except the chase. "Who is this man? Do you know him?"

"No. But his face is burning inside my mind." Vincent hesitated long enough that Elliot knew the next words didn't come easily. "Will you help me?"

Elliot considered the request, but he already knew what his answer would be. He would do anything to find Cathy's killer. But did Vincent know that? Tilting his head, he stared hard at the lurking shadow. "Why should I help you?"

"Because you loved her, too."


	9. Chapter 9

Catherine felt oddly adrift. She wandered the passages, greeting other members of the community in an absent-minded way when she came across them, but never pausing for long. She didn't feel much like socializing. She was too distracted. Vincent was risking his life in a search that should have been as much hers as it was his.

Eventually, she ended up in the pipe chamber. There was comfort in the maze-like tangle. Even now, late as it was, she could hear the distinctive metallic clang of a transmission in progress.

Pascal looked up when she came in and gave her a brief nod before returning to his work. Catherine listened carefully, pleased when she was able to pick out a few words—something about a donation from one of the helpers. Settling on the floor, she leaned her back against the stone wall and watched Pascal tap out messages with the practiced finesse of an orchestra conductor.

A few moments later, he signaled a final acknowledgement and set down his pipe. He crossed to where she sat and lowered himself beside her, stretching his legs out along the stone floor.

"Quiet night," he said.

She nodded.

"Where's Vincent?"

"Above."

"Strange," Pascal said. "Him up there and you down here."

She nodded. "I feel so helpless. He's in danger, and all I can do is sit here and wait."

"Fate has a nasty way of turning the tables on you sometimes, doesn't it."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that he's usually the one worrying about you."

"But that's different, isn't it? I mean, he always _knew_."

Pascal shrugged. "He still worried. He didn't talk about it much, but I could always tell."

Vincent had never said anything, had only rarely asked her to be careful. What must that have been like for him? And where had he found the strength to let her keep going back to her world, time after time, even though he had known he could lose her in an instant?

Catherine had wondered before if she had ever subconsciously put herself in danger in order to bring Vincent to her side. Now she realized for the first time how much worry her very lifestyle must have caused him. And tonight he was endangering himself on her behalf once more, and she was feeling sorry for herself because she wasn't there in his place.

The least she could do was respect his need for her to be safe. She let out a sigh and cast a rueful glance at Pascal.

"You know," she said. "Vincent's lucky to have you for a friend."

"No." Pascal shook his head. "It's us who are lucky to have _him_."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Joe was watching television when the knock came. He wore a faded sweatshirt and comfortable jeans, and the coffee table was covered in takeout containers and old newspapers. He glanced at the mess and shrugged. It was probably just a salesman anyway.

But when he opened the door, it wasn't to a magazine salesman. Instead Elliot Burch stood there, cool and elegant in his thousand dollar suit and matched set of bodyguards. Perfect.

"Elliot Burch at my doorstep?" Joe didn't even try to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. "I'm speechless."

"Hello, Joe."

There was something in Burch's voice, something . . . beaten. But Joe ignored it. He didn't like the guy. As far as he concerned, Burch was a slimy, power-hungry egomaniac who would climb over any and everybody to get what he wanted.

"Let me guess. You bought my building, and you're here for the rent."

Behind Burch, the bodyguards exchanged an uneasy glance, but Elliot just gave him a weak smile. "Do you think I could come in?"

Joe glanced at the mess in the living room, reluctant.

Burch took a step closer, his hands lifted in something that looked remarkably like a plea for help. "It's about Cathy."

"She's dead, Elliot." Or at least, she was as far as the general public knew. Privately, Joe was still hoping for a miracle. "Why don't you stop chasing her?"

Burch's response was prompt. "Why don't you?"

Joe sighed as the shot hit home. "Look, what do you want?"

"I got a lead on her killer."

A lead. It was more than Joe had, even after all these months. If it panned out . . . he stepped aside. Some things were more important than pride. "Come on in."

It took twenty minutes for Burch to tell his story, twenty minutes during which Joe stared at him in growing disbelief. By the end of it, Joe was pacing the floor and thinking that when Burch showed up at his door he should've slammed it, locked it five ways to Sunday, and headed for the fire escape. Barring that option, he was about half a step away from breaking the man's nose.

"All I'm hearing are complaints about the D.A.'s office," he said. "And I don't even work there now."

"You ever ask yourself why?"

Joe turned, hands on his hips. "I never had to. My boss made it real clear. I was acting against orders."

"Do you think he was right?"

"Maybe." Joe folded his arms across his chest. "Why, what's your point?"

"Cathy worked there, too. Doesn't the D.A.'s office take care of its own?"

"What are you driving at?" Was Burch suggesting that somebody in the District Attorney's office was dirty? It was impossible. Unthinkable.

"Six months ago, when Cathy disappeared, everybody got interested and started looking into it." Elliot leaned forward in the overstuffed chair as he made his point. "Two people looked harder than the rest. And after a while, it started looking hopeless. People lost interest. Except," he looked pointedly at Joe, "you and me." He paused for a moment, but he didn't break eye contact. "We got warned off. But we didn't pay attention to the warnings." His gaze took on a new intensity as he continued. "And then the warnings started to hurt."

"Come on, you're giving me coincidences like they prove something." In his gut, Joe sensed the truth of what Elliot was saying, but it was a kind of truth he wasn't prepared to hear.

"They're not coincidences, Joe. It's all coming from the same man."

"Who? Moreno?" Joe couldn't believe Elliot would even suggest it.

"The man Moreno works for."

"No." Not John. Not the man who had given him his start in the legal profession, mentored him through his toughest cases, and taught him everything he knew about being a lawyer. "Not a chance."

"You can't know that."

"I'll _tell_ you what I know." Joe tried not to let desperation creep into his voice. "I _know_ Moreno."

"Whoever killed Cathy has a direct line into your office," Elliot pointed out reasonably. "To somebody powerful enough to suspend you, and launch a witch hunt against me."

Something occurred to Joe. It didn't have to be Moreno pulling the strings. There was another suspect. "Maybe it's this guy Vincent nobody seems to be able to find."

Elliot dropped his head back against the chair. "It's not him."

"How do you know?"

"I know."

Stated as fact. Burch knew something he wasn't sharing.

"Maybe it's nobody." Joe eyed Elliot across the cluttered coffee table. "Let me ask you something." He picked up an empty Chinese food box and tossed it in the trash. "How much is Moreno costing you by holding up your building permit?"

Elliot shook his head. "That's not it, Joe."

"You know what else I don't like about this picture, Burch?" Another box followed the first. "Time after time I saw you put Cathy on the line when there was something in it for you." He reached for a beer bottle and dropped it on top of the boxes. "And now you're back here doing the same thing to me."

Finally moved to anger, Elliot came up out of his chair. "You've got no idea how _wrong_ you are!"

Joe crossed the room and yanked open the door. "I think it's time for you to leave."

"Joe, listen. I'd at least like you to promise me that you'll look into it."

"I'm not promising_you_ anything." He gestured at the open doorway. "Have a nice day."

Elliot sighed and crossed to the door, only to turn back at the last moment. "You ask Moreno what's at 1900 Sixth Avenue."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent was on his way to Catherine's chamber when Father's voice made him stop and turn around.

"Vincent, did you see Elliot Burch?"

He waited for Father to catch up. "Yes."

"Is he going to help you?"

Vincent started walking again. He was still angry with Father for suggesting that he and Catherine abandon the search for their son. But now was not the time for a confrontation. "He has agreed to help."

"Does this mean that you're going to risk seeing him again?"

Stunned that Father would even ask such a question, Vincent stopped again. "Yes, I will risk seeing him." He turned and gripped Father's shoulders. "I would risk _everything_. Would you do any less for me?"

There was a moment of tense silence before Father looked away. Vincent left him standing there. He needed to see Catherine, needed to reassure himself that the peace he sensed in her was real.

He found her sitting beside her bed, reading a book. Her arm was still in the sling, and an array of candles glowed at her side. She looked up at his entrance, and for an instant he imagined what it might be like to come home to her every night. The thought froze him in his tracks, and for the fraction of a moment it took him to catch his breath, he allowed himself to dream.

Catherine set the book aside and stood up to meet him.

"Did you see Elliot?" she asked, as he put his arms around her and inhaled the clean scent of her hair.

"Yes."

She searched his eyes. "How did he look? Is he okay?"

How like her to think of others before herself. "He seemed troubled. There are people who are making things difficult for him."

"Because of me?"

He shook his head. "Because he searches for the truth."

"About who killed me."

"Yes."

She laid her head against his chest. He stroked her back and wished that he could spare her this sadness.

"He has agreed to help," he said after a few moments. Then he smiled against her hair. "Though I believe he found my presence . . . uncomfortable."

He sensed her quiet amusement through the bond. "Did he see you?"

"No," he murmured. "The room was dark, and I stood in the shadows."

"He's a good man, Vincent. If he said he would help, he will."

"Yes." Though, Vincent wondered, at what cost?

**xXx**

**xXx**

Diana stood on Catherine Chandler's balcony again, her thoughts going in the same endless circles and running up against the same dead ends. She looked around, trying to see the balcony through Catherine's eyes. At the far end, beyond the wrought iron table and furniture, there was a bench with a potted plant on it. Diana crossed to it and knelt down for a closer look.

It was a rose bush. A bedraggled little thing, with browning leaves and two drooping buds, it looked like it was mourning the loss of its mistress. There was a plastic card stuck into the arid soil, and Diana leaned close to read the small print. A grafted bush. Red and white. Blooming, it would've been a lovely thing to see.

There was life in it yet, she realized, as she touched a barren stem, but there wouldn't be for long. She made an impulsive decision to take it back to her loft. Maybe she could revive it. For now, though, there was other work to be done.

She went back inside and crossed to Catherine's desk. There was a small picture frame near the lamp. Diana picked it up. It held a child's drawing. A violin maybe? Beneath the picture were the words, "You're invited." Curious, she turned the frame over and slid off the backing. The folded construction paper brought back memories of second grade—of crayons, and thick paste, and Jeremy Blankenship pulling her hair.

_"The children are giving a concert tonight. Meet me Below at the threshold. Vincent."_

"…the threshold Below . . ." She pondered the words. Below what?

**xXx**

**xXx**

Whatever Joe's personal feelings about Elliot Burch were, the man had made some valid points. Points Joe would have liked to discount as the desperate fabrications of a desperate man. And yet Moreno _had_ been behaving oddly for months, and there was just enough doubt in Joe's mind that he knew he wouldn't be able to ignore Burch's accusations until he asked some questions.

Which was what had brought him to Moreno's office. He took a deep breath and knocked once, then went in without waiting for an invitation.

"Hey, Boss. Burning the midnight oil?"

Moreno looked up and smiled a welcome. "You know how it is. It never stops coming down around here." He closed the folder he'd been studying and glanced at his watch. "Wait a minute. Time fly by that fast? The two months up already?"

"No." Joe shook his head and leaned against the doorframe. He wanted to look casual, as if this was a simple social call. "I just felt like dropping by for a visit."

"If you tell me you actually miss this place, I'm gonna give you another two months."

Joe grinned. "Hey, I'm guilty. What can I say? Soap operas have got nothing on this circus."

"You should relax," Moreno said, waving Joe to a chair. "Enjoy your vacation."

As Joe settled himself in the familiar chair, he tried to ignore the little voice in his head that kept accusing him of disloyalty. "What's this new mess Elliot Burch stepped in?"

"This one's no fun, Joe." John pushed aside a stack of folders. "You know I don't like to poke sticks at rich guys, I don't care what the papers may say."

"No, I know." Which wasn't entirely true, but Joe was willing to play along for the time being in order to see where the conversation would go.

Moreno shook his head in a passable imitation of regret. "Fact is, the guy's dirty."

"He keeps saying he can't defend himself because all his sources are confidential," Joe said.

"No one likes to stand in the light when they're pointing the finger at a guy like Burch."

"You think he's dangerous?"

"Anybody with that kind of power is dangerous, Joe. Believe me." There was something of personal knowledge in Moreno's eyes. "Why the interest?"

"Oh I don't know. A guy like that, spends most of his time on the front page," Joe shrugged. "After a while he seems bigger than life." He stood up and started for the door. Then, pretending he'd remembered something, he turned back. "John, the other day I was cleaning out some old files and I found something on the Chandler case that I never got a chance to look into." He watched John carefully, gauging his reaction.

"Joe," Moreno said. "You've gotta let this thing rest." He was trying for paternal patience, but Joe sensed the underlying tension in John's shoulders. He almost let it go at that, dreading what he might learn. Then he thought about Cathy.

"I know. I just wanted to run it by you to see if maybe it rang a bell."

"What is it?"

"An address someone gave me. 1900 Sixth Avenue? You know, that tower right off Fifty-Third?"

Fear flitted through Moreno's eyes so quickly that Joe would have missed it if he hadn't been paying attention. He recognized the address and knew what it meant.

"Yeah, I know where it is, but it doesn't do anything for me. I'm sorry."

Moreno was lying. Joe was certain of it. He wouldn't meet Joe's eyes, and he started fiddling with his pen the way he always did when he was nervous.

"Think it'd be worth checking out the tenants? My tip came from a solid source."

Moreno nodded slowly. "I can put some people on it." But he didn't look very enthusiastic about the idea, and Joe figured he knew why.

"I got nothing else to do, why don't I just go down—?"

"Joe." John's voice was firm, and it carried a note of warning. "You're still on suspension."

"Yeah, right." Joe picked up his jacket and tried to pretend his world hadn't just been shaken to its foundation. "I'll see you later."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent had arranged with Elliot that their second meeting should take place at the carousel. As he gathered his cloak and prepared to leave, Catherine put her hand on his arm.

"Let me come with you."

"Catherine . . . no."

"You're going Above because of me, because of _our_ son." She touched the cord of the leather pouch he wore around his neck. "You shouldn't have to bear that risk alone."

He started to shake his head, but she interrupted him.

"You've done so much for me, Vincent. Let me be there for you now. Let me help."

For a long moment, he stared at her in silence. Finally he nodded. "But you must not be seen."

"I'll be careful. I just need to be close."

"Perhaps I know someone who can help." He took her hand. "Come."

A few minutes later, he showed her into a long, narrow chamber lined on both sides with clothing-filled wooden racks.

"Julia?" Vincent called. "Do you have a moment?"

"Coming . . ." A woman's light voice sang out from somewhere in the darkness. "Just let me . . . there. That should do it." The voice had an accent. Irish? Scottish? It was a lovely, lilting, friendly sort of voice.

A moment later, a petite woman with a cloud of fiery red hair came around one of the racks, her arms filled with clothes. "Vincent! Hello!" She smiled at him before turning her curious gaze on Catherine. "And you must be the mysterious Catherine I've heard so much about. Welcome."

"Thank you." Catherine returned Julia's infectious grin.

"Julia is new to the tunnels," Vincent said. "And she has made it her mission to rescue us from ourselves." There was gentle humor in his eyes.

Julia laughed. "The way you tell it, you'd think I could summon the very faeries from their dance."

"You perform a vital service for our community," Vincent said, and Catherine marveled at his ability to make people feel special.

Shaking her head, Julia set down the bundle of clothing. "And you have the devil's own way with words." She turned and leaned her slim hip against an old wooden table. Folding her arms across her chest, she tilted her head. "You've come here looking for something, I'd guess. Something specific?"

Vincent nodded. "A disguise."

"What sort of disguise?"

"It's for me," Catherine said. "For when I go Above."

Julia raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you supposed to be dead?" she asked bluntly.

Vincent winced, but Catherine smiled, disarmed by Julia's frank manner. "Yes."

"I see . . ." Julia eyed Catherine up and down. "Turn," she said.

Catherine did, spinning in a slow circle while Julia watched. "Right," she said, after a moment's consideration. "I've got just the thing."

She disappeared into the shadows, and Catherine gave Vincent a puzzled smile. But he shrugged and shook his head. As the minutes passed, Catherine began to wonder if Julia had disappeared altogether. Then they heard a shout of triumph followed by a muffled thump. Moments later, Julia reappeared.

"I knew it was back there somewhere," she said, patting the bundle of dark fabric. "Hadn't seen it in weeks, though. Been waiting for the right person for it." She eyed Catherine up and down again. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I think you'll do nicely." She thrust the bundle at Catherine. "Here," she said. "Let's see how it looks."

At first, Catherine wasn't sure what Julia had given her. And then all at once she understood, and she broke into a wide smile. "It's beautiful."

Julia nodded. "Isn't it just lovely?"

"Vincent?" Catherine asked. "Would you mind?" She still wore the sling, and the cloak was too heavy to manage one-handed.

He took it from her and laid it across her shoulders. The soft woolen fabric settled around her with a swirl. It was dark green, so dark as to be almost black, its borders embroidered in an intricate Celtic design in the same deep shade.

Vincent pulled the edges of the cloak together beneath Catherine's chin. His fingers lingered, the soft fur brushing against her skin, his eyes warm and appreciative on hers.

"Now, if we just—" Julia ducked around Vincent and reached across Catherine's shoulders to catch the wide hood. She tugged it up over Catherine's hair. "There, now. If you stay in the shadows even the leprechauns will have trouble finding you."

Catherine blinked as Vincent stepped away. Then she forced a smile and turned to Julia. "It's perfect, Julia. Thank you."

Julia cocked her head to one side, studying Catherine. "You'll be needing more than a cloak if you're to be with us for a while." She looked at Vincent. "She _is_ staying—"

Catherine's heart stumbled as she considered his possible answers and their implications, but he merely reached for her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers as he nodded.

"Yes."

The breath Catherine hadn't realized she'd been holding escaped in a rush, drawing curious glances from both Vincent and Julia. She ducked her head, grateful for the dim lighting and the cloak, both of which helped to hide her blush.

"I tell you what," Julia said. "We're near enough the same size. How about if I collect a few things and drop them by your chamber later on?"

"That would be wonderful, Julia. Do you know where it is?"

Julia waved aside the question. "I'll find it, right enough. Now, you two had better get going. The night won't last forever, you know."

**xXx**

**xXx**

_Learn to be just, and not to slight the Gods. You have been warned_. The line, from_ The Aeneid_, replayed itself in Elliot's mind over and over, backed by the horrifying image of Cleon's body as they'd found it in the garage an hour earlier. Hung spread-eagled from an overhead beam, head canted at an unnatural angle, Cleon's corpse had worn an expression of stark terror, and Elliot squeezed his eyes shut against it.

The warning was intended for _him_.

When the car stopped, Elliot got out without waiting for his bodyguard to open the door. He tugged the edges of his jacket together, though whether to ward off the chill in the air or the one in his mind, he couldn't have said.

"Stay with the car."

"Mr. Burch . . ." The bodyguard peered into the darkness beyond his boss's shoulder. "Are you sure?"

But Elliot was already moving away. "Ten minutes," he snapped over his shoulder.

The carousel, bright hub of the park on lazy summer afternoons, seemed almost sinister at this hour, and Elliot glanced around uneasily as he reached for the door. It was unlocked, as he'd been told it would be, and it creaked as he pulled it open. He took a breath and stepped inside. He was on his way to meet an enigma. An unknown entity, this Vincent was also the best chance he had of finding the man who'd killed Cathy.

Inside, the carved horses waited in eerie silence, their music stilled, their brightly painted forms dulled by the glowering shadows. Somewhere in the darkness a small animal skittered away from Elliot's invasion. The air was still and musty, laced with the lingering odors of axle grease and stale popcorn.

"Vincent?" Elliot called. There was no answer, and he moved further inside, peering into the hidden places and trying not to think about spiders and rodents and rabid bats. "Vincent!"

"I'm here."

The low voice came from behind him, and Elliot spun around as a hulking figure materialized from the shadows. Cloaked again, his face hidden deep within the dark hood, Vincent seemed almost a shadow himself. Elliot took a step closer.

"Come no further," Vincent said.

There was a warning in the velvet tones, and though Elliot didn't consider himself a timid man, he froze.

"You're alone?"

Elliot nodded, but Vincent looked around anyway, the hood shifting with the motion of his head. Apparently satisfied, he turned back to Elliot. "Tell me what you have found."

"What I've found," Elliot said, unable to keep the grief and anger out of his voice, "is a connection to the district attorney of Manhattan."

"What is it, Elliot?"

The concern in Vincent's tone almost undid Elliot's control. He took a steadying breath. "This man that you recognize. The man you saw in the helicopter. If he's powerful enough to control the district attorney—" He looked away, gritting his teeth against his anger. "He killed two hundred and thirteen people in a hotel fire. _My_ hotel!" He wanted to hit something, to wreak his vengeance on the invisible enemy that was slowly destroying him. "And tonight he killed a man who worked for me. A friend."

Turning away, he rested his palms against the cool flank of one of the carousel horses and dropped his head. When he spoke again, his voice was little more than an agonized whisper.

"And they left his corpse as a warning." He shoved at the horse. It shuddered violently, the sudden friction against its steel post creating an eerily human squeal of pain. "What kind of man is this?"

"The way is dangerous, Elliot." There was sympathy in the low voice. "You are not bound to continue."

"It's not dangerous, Vincent." Elliot shook his head at the shadowy form. "It's suicide."

Vincent was silent for so long that Elliot began to wonder if the meeting was over. When Vincent finally spoke again, his voice was quiet. Tense. "There is something more that you should know."

Elliot waited, certain somehow that he wasn't going to like what he was about to hear.

"There is a child."

Air exploded from Elliot's lungs in a harsh exhalation of surprise.

"This man," Vincent went on, "is raising Catherine's child."

Cathy had had her secrets. Elliot knew that. And he had always respected her privacy. Hell, he had plenty of secrets of his own. But a _child_? Then, as he stared at Vincent, he suddenly understood, and shock made him stagger back a step.

"It's _your_ child."

Vincent shook his head—a slight movement that barely shifted the folds of the dark hood. "The child is hers, Elliot."

Elliot pushed his hand through his hair and stared at Vincent, stunned by this latest bombshell. A child. A picture formed in his mind of Cathy, holding a baby in her arms and smiling softly. The image sparked an ache of longing deep in his chest.

"What do you want from me?" He clenched his teeth against the pain of loss. Cathy. Cleon. His company. What would it be next?

"Help me find him," Vincent said. "Help me find him and bring him home."

Elliot wrapped his hand around one of the cold steel poles and stared at Vincent. Help him? How did Vincent think he could help? What did he even have left to offer?

Everything he had, he'd earned through hard work and determination and a grim refusal to accept defeat. No way was he going to let some faceless stranger take it all away from him without a fight. He couldn't bring Cathy back, but he could help this man save her son.

Slowly, without taking his eyes off Vincent's shadowy form, he nodded.

"Tell me what I can do."


	10. Chapter 10

Every night, before retiring to the den to watch the evening news, Gabriel toured his house. It was a ritual he undertook, not out of pride, but simply to keep a running inventory. He kept a list in his mind of all the treasures he owned, and another of all the treasures he desired, and every night he compared the two. Invariably, the second list was longer.

His past always accompanied him on these nightly tours, the spectre of Raul's ghost following him down the long hallways and through the silent rooms. Short, swarthy, and vicious, Raul had bought him and his brother Snow from their father in settlement of a five hundred dollar gambling debt. Gabriel had been five at the time, his brother seven. Days later, Gabriel had received a brutal introduction to Guatemala's back alleys.

Now, when he stopped in the formal dining room, with its two fireplaces and hand carved sideboard, he saw the moldy cardboard boxes he'd lived in as a boy. When he ran his fingers over a high-backed captain's chair, he felt the warm stickiness of his own blood—though whether from a street fight or one of Raul's beatings, he couldn't have said.

In the kitchen, he stared at the bright cookware hanging from pegs on the ceiling, and remembered eating rotten fruit and spoiled meat without bothering to pick out the maggots. On good days, when Raul had been pleased with them, he and Snow might have gotten a bit of hard cheese. But those times were few and far between.

Gabriel let his gaze drift over the room with its marble countertops and large windows. Every item was the best that money could buy, including the carbon steel knives on their magnetic strip near the stove. The knife Snow had used to kill Raul with had been similar in style to one of those, but double bladed and dull. Raul had died in excruciating agony while Snow had watched without expression and Gabriel had cried, blood and tears mixing together to stream down his face.

It was the first time Snow killed, and the last time Gabriel cried.

In the bedrooms, Gabriel stared at thick mattresses and silk sheets and remembered dirty straw and biting rats. The bathrooms, with their claw-footed tubs and gleaming fixtures, recalled the stink of raw sewage and unwashed bodies.

He moved on to his private suite. Opening the mirrored doors of his closet he saw, not hand-tailored silk or Egyptian cotton, but grimy rags. Instead of deep, lush carpets and Italian tile floors, he saw garbage-strewn alleys.

He and Snow had come a long way since those days in Guatemala City. They'd survived the slums and the beatings and the sweatshops, and built themselves an empire. But the final piece of the puzzle, the culmination of his dreams, was lying in a nursery at the end of the hall. He hurried his pace, eager to gaze upon the future.

Julian. Gabriel rolled the syllables on his tongue. The name of the last great pagan emperor was a fitting one for his son. He closed the door before crossing the thick carpet to the crib.

The baby was awake, his eyes tracking Gabriel's approach. Gabriel's ring glittered with reflected moonlight when he reached in to pull the blanket aside, and Julian grabbed at it.

"Go on," Gabriel urged, when the tiny hand released its hold. "Grasp it." His soft voice whispered through the quiet room. "Don't be afraid." Eventually, Julian would wear the ring. And he would rule the world. "The day will come when you will know the truth."

Darwin had been right when he'd written about survival of the fittest. Gabriel and Snow were living proof of evolutionary theory. They had survived, and thrived, despite their childhoods. Or possibly because of them.

And fate had rewarded Gabriel's survival by giving him a son.

Outside, one of the dogs howled. The call was answered by its mate on the other side of the compound, and Gabriel lifted his head, listening. The animals were part wolf and trained to kill.

"When the ring is on _your_ finger," Gabriel said, looking back down at Julian, "that day your life will truly begin." The little hands were strong for one so small, but Gabriel wasn't surprised. Julian's sire also had unusual strength.

"Listen to the shadows." His thin lips turned up in a cold smile. "_Nothing_ is impossible." He'd proven that himself, having begun life as a slum rat and risen to control the fate of nations.

"The truths are so simple." Money was power. People existed only to serve that power.

"Their fear will build your castles." Know an opponent's weakness, his fear, and you control him. "Their greed will make them slaves." Gambling, and its big brother, greed, had been his father's weaknesses, and Raul had exploited them mercilessly. It was one of Gabriel's earliest lessons, and one he'd never forgotten.

"Look when they close their eyes," he continued, drawing out the words, dreaming of the future. "Push forward whenever they pull back. Eat the meals they dare not taste."

Julian's eyes followed Gabriel's every move. They had a disturbing clarity to them, as though the baby could see into Gabriel's very soul. Gabriel looked away and pulled the blanket back into place.

"The power will come. So easy." One day, Gabriel and Julian would rule the world. It would be Earth's greatest family-owned business. "Century after century, the truths never change."

He looked up, gazing out the window. "Someday."

His low chuckle rolled through the quiet room, and Julian began to cry.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Catherine and Vincent were quiet during the walk back to Vincent's chamber. When they arrived, Catherine dropped wearily onto the bed. Her thoughts had been chaotic since they'd left the carousel. She knew Vincent was aware of it, but he didn't push her. Instead, he put his cloak away and busied himself lighting candles.

She watched him, only distantly aware of the steady grace of his hands and the sudden glow of flame against his fur when he struck a match.

"It's because of me, Vincent." It was all spinning out of control, and she wanted to stop it, wanted to get off the merry-go-round and run away, only she couldn't. She couldn't do anything at all. "Those people in that hotel, Elliot's friend . . ."

Vincent blew out the match and set it aside. "It isn't because of you, Catherine. Those people were murdered by an evil man. He is the only one to blame for this."

His voice was as warm and beautiful as ever, but she found little comfort in it. "I wish I could see Elliot, tell him how sorry I am." But would it even matter anymore? Or was it already too late?

Finished with the candles, Vincent turned his chair around and sat down, leaning forward to take her hands in his. "Elliot Burch chose his path months ago, Catherine."

She looked up, meeting his eyes. "Why didn't you tell him it was _our_ baby?"

"Because I fear," Vincent said, "that Elliot is not ready for us. For the _truth_ of us."

"Do you really think it would shock him so much?"

Vincent sighed. "Catherine," he said. "When you look at me, you see only the man that you love. The man who loves you." His gaze dropped to their joined hands. "But when other people look at me, people who judge only on what their eyes tell them . . . These people see only a monster."

"Then they're mistaken." She touched his brow, smoothing her fingers along his hairline and down to his jaw. "And because of it, they'll never have the chance to know what a wonderful man you are." Laying her hand on top of his, she said, "But I think you misjudge Elliot."

"Perhaps. But it is a risk I'm not yet prepared to take."

He lifted his fingers and laced them through hers. Dark fur, pale skin, dark fur, pale skin. Contrast. Repeating patterns. Male and female, yin and yang, dark and light. To Catherine, the pattern was almost achingly beautiful. But would Elliot see it that way? Or would he be unable to see beyond the very differences that made Vincent who he was?

**xXx**

**xXx**

Diana returned to Cathy Chandler's apartment, drawn by the mystery of the invitation she'd found on the desk. She should have taken it with her before, but somehow it had seemed wrong to take it from its place of honor. The picture, drawn with crayons on a piece of faded construction paper, was interesting enough, but the elegant script inside was what intrigued her. Now she sat on the back of the couch mulling over the cryptic words again.

". . . The threshold Below . . ." Who used words like that anymore? College professors? Shakespearean actors practicing their craft? Elegant old men with hand-carved pipes and smoking jackets? And what the hell did _Below_ mean? Below what? With a shrug, she got to her feet. Maybe the basement would offer a clue or two. It was below_something_, after all.

Minutes later she was ducking under cobwebs and around dust covered boxes and discarded furniture. She poked into dark corners and tried the doors of the storage rooms, sneezing occasionally and shuddering each time she felt a spider crawl up her arm or around her collar. Finally, frustrated and grimy, she stopped in the middle of one of the largest rooms.

"Okay," she said, looking around her. "Below. The threshold Below." How much more _Below_ could she get?

Then she saw it, a dark gap behind a stack of boxes. She moved the boxes aside and peered into the hole she'd uncovered. A ladder disappeared into the darkness. She shrugged. The invitation had clearly used the word_Below._ So, below she would go.

She climbed down and turned around, examining the narrow space. It was a tunnel of some kind. Dry and cool, it led off into the darkness. She'd need to come back with a flashlight. And maybe a way to mark her path so she wouldn't get lost. And she'd stop at City Hall, first. Maybe they'd have a map.

But what did she really expect to find down here? It hardly seemed plausible to expect elegant old gentlemen and child prodigies, as the invitation seemed to suggest. More likely, her wanderings down here would only afford her a deeper acquaintance with New York City's decrepit sewer system and its fabled rats.

With a shiver of distaste, she turned back to the ladder.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Joe burst into Elliot Burch's office unannounced. "What's at 1900 Sixth Avenue?" he demanded. He was tired of playing games—of chasing mysteries that turned into shadows that became enigmas. He wanted answers. And he wanted them now.

Elliot looked up from his work, set down his pen, and leaned back in his chair. "You talked to Moreno," he said calmly.

"I did."

"And?"

"Why don't you tell me what 1900 Sixth Avenue is?" Putting his hands flat on the desk, Joe leaned forward, deliberately invading Elliot's personal space.

But he wasn't expecting the quiet answer.

"It's where Cathy died."

Joe stumbled back to sit in the closest chair, a soft leather contraption that probably cost more than his entire month's salary. "Jesus."

There was a moment of painful silence in the room. Then it occurred to Joe that Burch knew a lot more about Cathy's case than casual interest would seem to warrant, and in an instant he was on his feet again.

"How do you know?"

Elliot shook his head. "I can't tell you that."

"Why not? Are you protecting someone?" Or was Burch himself somehow connected with Cathy's disappearance? God knew the man wasn't exactly lily-pure. "How do you know so much?"

"It doesn't matter how I know," Elliot said.

"The hell it doesn't!"

And then Elliot was up too, anger propelling him across the desk. "Moreno's dirty, Joe! We both know that!"

Joe lowered his eyes, unwilling to acknowledge the truth of Burch's words.

Elliot sat down again. He'd made his point, and he knew it. "What's important is that he may be the _only_ link we have to whoever killed Cathy."

Defeated, Joe dropped back into the chair. "I don't believe this is happening."

Elliot shook his head. "I'm so sorry."

But Joe didn't answer. There was nothing left to say.

**xXx**

**xXx**

When Kipper had first told Vincent about the red-haired stranger he'd seen in the tunnels beneath Catherine's building, Vincent had kept the news to himself, not wanting to worry Catherine or Father. In truth, he had hoped that the woman, upon finding nothing of interest Below, would never return.

But she _had_ come back, only hours after her first visit, and Kipper had sent for him as soon as he'd seen her. He'd wanted to know what should be done, and Vincent had come to see the woman for himself.

She was slim and athletic, with thick hair held back by an elastic band, and an honest, determined look about her. But he had never seen her before, and he wondered what had led her to the tunnels. When she had gone, Vincent turned to lean against the wall.

"What shall we do now, Vincent?" Kipper was watching him, waiting for instructions.

Vincent gazed toward the ladder, remembering all the times he'd waited here for Catherine to come to him, haloed in the light from Above, their bond shimmering with her joy. He would do what must be done, but his heart ached with the knowledge that they would never share this place again.

"Tell Mouse we must seal this section of the tunnels."

"Forever?"

"Yes." Vincent looked away. "Forever."

With a sigh, he turned to go to her, to tell her of this new threat to their safety.

**xXx**

**xXx**

By Monday morning, Joe's anger and disappointment had grown to dangerous proportions. He strode through the criminal courts building, oblivious to the bustling activity, intent only on settling things with Moreno.

John was talking to one of the new attorneys when Joe walked in without knocking. "Tell him to testify," he was saying. "You can't take the easy win. There's a principle here."

The two men turned at Joe's entrance, and John smiled an uneasy welcome. "Hey, Joe."

"Hello, John." Joe was seeing Moreno with new eyes, and his voice was tight with carefully controlled anger.

Moreno must have sensed it, because he spoke to the other attorney without taking his gaze off Joe's face. "Charlie, let's pick this up later."

Charlie nodded and left. Joe waited until the door closed before moving further into the office.

"Everything all right?" Moreno asked.

Joe gestured toward the door. "I remember when you used to give _me_ those lectures."

"You remember wrong. You used to lecture _me_ all the time. I never met anybody with a bigger thirst for justice." Moreno shuffled a stack of papers into a folder. "These new guys, they don't know. Today it's every man for himself."

"Is that the way you feel?" Joe asked. He needed to find out how just badly his judgment had failed him.

John glanced up from the file. "That's the way it is."

"No, I mean for you. Is that the way _you_ feel?" There had been a time when Joe would have thought he knew what Moreno's answer would be to that question, but now he found himself doubting everything he'd ever known about the man in front of him, the man he'd once thought of as a friend.

John gave him a wary look. "What's on your mind, Joe?"

"I heard some things. Things I didn't want to hear."_ Things about you, John, about how you sold out one of your own_.

"What things?"

"About the ones who killed Cathy."

Shaking his head, John pushed the folder aside. "You can't let that go, can you."

"About someone bought and paid for in this office."

John stiffened.

"Deny it for me," Joe said. "Please?"

In an instant, John was on his feet. "I'm going to let you apologize for that," he snarled, punctuating his words with short, hard jabs of his finger. "And then I'm going to let you leave!"

Joe leaned across the desk. He kept his voice low, but it dripped with venom. "Do you think I'd come here if I wasn't sure?"

John straightened slowly. "You don't know what you're talking about." But there was fear in his eyes.

"Cathy Chandler is dead, John, and her blood is all over you."

"You better get out of here, Joe."

"What are you doing here?" Everything Joe had ever thought, everything he'd understood about John Moreno, lay shattered at his feet. "This office stands for something!"

"Out!" John stabbed a finger toward the door.

"How many times have you told me that the only difference between us and the people we put away is what's here?" Joe slapped his palm against his own chest. He was yelling now, his temper close to the boiling point. "'It's like a _religion_, Joe! It's like a _faith_, Joe! It _has_ to be!'"

"I also remember telling you something about _loyalty_!" John shouted. "Where's your loyalty?"

"Where _should_ it be, John? With you? Or the law!" Joe turned away in disgust. "I didn't think there was a difference." He took calming breath, trying to bring his rage and disappointment back under control. "I know you didn't do it." Whatever else Moreno might have been, he wasn't a murderer. "Help me get the one who did."

"Who told you this?"

Joe looked away.

"It was Burch, wasn't it." It was a statement rather than a question. "Burch got to you."

Joe shook his head, his anger replaced by deep sadness. "No, John. The truth got to me. Just the truth." Disappointment lay heavily on his shoulders as he turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him.


	11. Chapter 11

Catherine loved the Great Hall, and tonight she had braved the winds and asked Cullen to help with the massive doors so that she could spend some time with the tapestries. When Vincent found her, she was running her fingers over the delicate golden threads at the edge of one of her favorites.

"Catherine."

She turned, feeling the familiar tingle of joy. "You found me."

"Always," he said, coming to stand beside her.

"Father finally let me give up that awful sling." Her arm was stiff and sore, but at least she could move it again, though Father had lectured her at length about the need to be careful. "It feels so good to be free of it."

"He was only doing what was best for you," Vincent said mildly. "Does the injury give you much pain?"

She shook her head. "It's getting better."

"Good." He gave her a quizzical look. "Tell me, Catherine. What brings you here?"

"I wanted to see the tapestries again. They're so beautiful."

He gazed at them for a moment. "They are breathtaking."

"Yes." She ran her fingers over the woven figures. "There's such turbulence in them," she said. "So much life." She dropped her hand to her side. "Do you think they were happy?"

"Yes," he said. "I think they were." They were silent for a long minute, their eyes on the exuberant tapestry. When Vincent sighed she looked up, noticing the sadness in his eyes for the first time.

"What is it?"

"There is something that I must tell you."

She touched his arm, almost afraid to hear what he was about to say. "What?"

"There was an outsider in the tunnels today. A woman."

"Where?"

"Beneath your building."

Catherine's heart sank. Somehow she'd never considered the possibility that this would happen. "Did you see her?"

He nodded. "Is it possible that something she found in your home led her to seek the threshold?"

"You don't think she stumbled upon the tunnels by accident?"

"This is the second time she has been seen."

"You didn't tell me—"

"I didn't wish to worry you. And I had hoped that she would not return."

A chill ran down Catherine's spine as she thought about strangers going through her things. She should have known it would happen, or guessed it at least. It was standard procedure in missing persons cases. But what had she left behind that had brought a stranger into the tunnels?

"The invitation," she said. "_Damn_ it." She folded her arms across her stomach. "It was one the children made. I kept it on my desk because it always made me smile." She wanted to hold it in her hands again now, to run her fingers over the simple frame with its cheerful crayoned picture. The thought brought back memories of a happier, less complicated time. "What will you do now?"

"What we must." Vincent turned to gaze out across the empty chamber. "I've ordered that section of the tunnels sealed. Mouse is seeing to it now."

Sealed. Yet another piece of who she was, who she had been, gone. "They keep taking things away." She had already lost her baby and her home, her friends and her career. Now they were threatening her here. The one place she had thought she would always be safe. "Will it never end?"

"Yes," Vincent said. "It _will_ end." There was a determination in his voice that made Catherine look at him in concern.

He seemed tired, she thought. And older somehow, as though the weight of the worries he carried was wearing him down. But what worried her most was the anger she sensed in him, the thirst for vengeance that lurked just beneath the surface of his calm demeanor.

Abruptly, she shook her head. She didn't want to talk about it anymore. She wanted to talk about happier things, simpler times. She wanted, just for a moment, to make the outside world, with all its problems and terrors, disappear.

"I was thinking about Winterfest," she said. "Was it lovely?"

"No." There was an edge of remembered loneliness in his voice. "Because you weren't there to share it with me."

She leaned against him, and he put his arm around her waist, and for few minutes they shared the quiet solace of each other's company.

"I thought about it sometimes. I thought about the wind, and the way it blew through your hair, and I thought about how we passed the flame from candle to candle until even the darkest corners of the room glowed with their warmth. And I thought about the children. I remembered the way their eyes sparkled, and the way they laughed and played, and how nobody yelled at them, nobody told them they must be quiet and well-mannered."

"Did somebody yell at you, Catherine? When you were a child?"

She shook her head against his shoulder. "When I got too excited my mother would take me aside and remind me gently that I was a young lady," she said. "And I tried, Vincent. I tried to be good, but sometimes I just couldn't help myself."

"And what did you do then?" Vincent asked with gentle humor. "When you couldn't help yourself?"

"I climbed trees." She smiled at the memory. "Or I'd get all wet and muddy playing in the creek. It made my mother shake her head and sigh a lot, but Dad just laughed."

She slipped away from him, down the rough stone steps to the wide floor. Vincent followed a few feet behind, his cloak rustling faintly. She kept going until the walls were swallowed up by shadows and all she could see was Vincent as he came toward her, his body backlit by the flickering torches.

The space around them felt huge in the darkness, as though it went on forever. And from a distance the music came to her again. "I can still hear it." Ignoring a twinge of pain, she stretched out her arms, let her head fall back, and turned in a slow circle. "Even now, I can still hear the music."

"Yes." Vincent tilted his head, listening. "A waltz, perhaps."

"It's lovely." Her body moved to the gentle tune that played in her mind as she remembered that other magical night, and the joy and hope that had resonated between them. And then Vincent was there, and he took her in his arms, and they were dancing together, just like they had on that long ago night.

He led her in a wide circle, his steps sure and graceful, and she felt like she was floating, as though his touch was the only thing keeping her from drifting up into the darkness. He swung her out, away from him, until he held her by just the tips of her fingers, and for a breathless moment she thought she might spin away from him completely. But then he caught her and pulled her back into his arms and she laughed, her voice echoing off the high stone walls as he smiled down at her.

Around and around they went, moving to music only the two of them could hear.

And then gradually the unheard melody slowed and the space between them narrowed until his arms were wrapped around her and their bodies brushed together with each step. She flattened her hands against his back, pressing in against the muscles that rippled beneath her palms, unwilling to allow even the smallest breath of air to separate them. He laid his cheek against her hair, and it was a long time before either of them realized that the music had faded away and they were standing, still and alone, in the very center of the chamber.

Catherine lifted her head, her eyes finding his in the shadows. In his gaze she saw the same warmth and love that she always had, but this time . . . this time there was something else, too. Something more. Something that made her pulse leap and her breath catch in her throat.

All at once she became aware of the intimate touch of his body against hers—the lean strength of his thighs, the press of his hips, and the solid wall of his chest. She felt the rose in its soft leather pouch, caught between them now, a tangible reminder of their love. But it was a reminder she didn't need.

He kept one arm around her waist and shifted his other hand to the nape of her neck. The pad of his thumb brushed against the sensitive skin just behind her ear, and had he not been holding her so closely, her legs might have given way, the muscles melting under the heat of his touch.

Her gaze shifted to his mouth, and she tried to remember how to breathe.

"Catherine—" His muted voice was hoarse with need.

She reached up to touch his lips with the tip of one trembling finger. "Shh—"

She wanted him to kiss her, wanted it so desperately it was all she could do to keep from pulling his head down to hers. But she wouldn't demand something for herself that he wasn't prepared to give. His fears were real, and born of his love for her, and only he could decide when he was ready to move beyond them. And so she tried desperately to suppress the heat that curled in her stomach and calm the eager pounding of her heart.

He took in a deep, shuddering breath, his chest expanding against hers, and for a single heartbreaking moment she thought he might pull away.

But he didn't.

Instead he shifted, gathering her closer still. And then he was bending over her, and the something different in his eyes resolved itself into pure male desire just . . . before . . . he kissed her.

It started out slow, with the sweet, soft touch of discovery, of newness. But as her heart surged and she tangled her fingers in his hair, no longer denying her body's demands, he explored the juncture of her lips, asking a question without words.

She welcomed him with a low moan, opening to him, captivated by him. His hair brushed across her face, and his lips teased at hers, and his hands roamed up and down her back, pressing into the hollow between her shoulder blades and then shifting low along her spine so that she couldn't fail to notice his own rising excitement.

She pushed closer, instinctively seeking to fit her body more fully against his, and he tensed in response, running his tongue across her teeth and along the soft recesses of her cheeks until she thought she might explode with need, the desire pulsing through her like a living thing—the fierce, driving, demanding force of it arcing along her spine.

Her fingers left his hair to slide across his shoulders, to stroke the warm, rough skin of his neck, to trace the strong line of his jaw. The sound he made in response, somewhere between a purr and a growl, pulled her even deeper into his heat.

When he dragged his mouth away from hers to trail small, nibbling kisses over her cheeks and eyelids, she whispered his name, calling him back to her warmth. His breath was harsh, uneven, and his arm shifted from her waist, moving higher, until his fingers brushed against the underside of her breast and drew an urgent plea from her throat.

She wanted more, so much more, and she knew that he could sense it through their bond. She felt it in him, too, the driving need to join their bodies as their hearts were already joined. But in another instant he tore his mouth away from hers, his head dropping back as he heaved in great gulps of air. Abruptly, he spun toward the steps, his cloak brushing against her legs as he strode across the chamber.

She swayed on her feet, unsteady and bereft as she stared after him, struggling to bring her chaotic emotions under control. "Vincent?"

He didn't answer. He was leaning against the railing now, head down, shoulders heaving, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Suddenly the Great Hall felt vast and cold, and the distance separating her from him seemed like miles rather than feet, but she set out anyway, a pilgrim crossing the desert.

"Talk to me, Vincent." She spoke softly. "Tell me what you're feeling."

"I don't . . ." He shuddered when she reached his side and touched his arm. "I don't know what's happening."

"What do you mean?"

He straightened, turning to look at her, and she saw that though his breathing was already returning to normal, he was still tense. "I'm no stranger to desire, Catherine. It's been my constant companion almost since we met."

His words sent tendrils of heat curling along her spine again. She swallowed hard. "But?"

"But always in the past I could control those feelings! Now . . ." He dropped his eyes. "I fear I may not be able to protect you for much longer."

She reached out to him, laying her hand on his arm. "I don't want you to protect me from those feelings, Vincent." Beneath her fingers, his muscles tensed. "I haven't wanted it for a very long time."

His eyes came up to meet hers. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," she said, absolutely certain of it. "You can't."

He blew out a breath, shaking his head. "Catherine—"

"No." She shook her head, interrupting him. "Please, Vincent. You have to trust me." She stepped closer and lifted her hands to his face. "I know you're afraid, and I won't rush you, but I won't let you pull away from me, either. Not now. Not ever again."

She pulled his head down to hers, kissing him tenderly, showing him with her touch that he was safe with her, and she with him.

For a moment, he didn't respond. Then he groaned, and his arms came around her, and he trailed a series of kisses across her cheeks and eyes. It was a gentle caress, without the passionate overtones of their earlier encounter, and afterwards she leaned against him, resting her head on his chest.

"I love you." His voice trembled, and she tightened her arms around him.

"Hold me."

He did, cradling the back of her head with one hand and lowering his other arm to her waist. He rested his head against the top of hers, and she felt safe, and protected, and cherished.

It was a long time before he eased away from her and reached for her hand.

"It's late," he said softly. "You should rest."

She resisted the urge to tell him that she needed him more than she needed sleep. She had to let him find the way at his own pace.

"I am a little tired," she said.

He nodded. "Come. I'll walk you to your chamber."


	12. Chapter 12

John Moreno thought of himself as an ordinary guy doing his best to survive in a crazy, mixed-up world. His parents had raised him right. They'd given him principles, and values, and a deeply grounded sense of morality. And he believed in doing the right thing. In justice. The day he'd won the election had been one of the highlights of his life.

And yet somehow tonight he found himself standing in a seedy part of town facing a man who could destroy him with a single word. How had it come to this? How had he allowed this man, this scrawny, slimy bastard, to take complete and utter control of his life? When had he become a puppet on a string?

He sighed and shook his head, giving in to the inevitable. "Burch knows the address."

"This is not a profitable situation, Mr. Moreno." The man was thin, with dark hair and dark eyes and death in his voice. And after more than a year of working for him, John still didn't know his name. "Too many liabilities."

"I can handle it." John tried to keep the desperation out of his voice.

"Can you handle your assistant?"

"Maxwell?" How did they know about Joe?

The other man nodded.

"He's no threat. Trust me." John knew what happened to people who posed a threat, and he didn't want Joe's death on his conscience along with Cathy Chandler's.

"I would like to trust you," the man said, but John heard the doubt in his voice.

"I can take care of this."

"Then do it."

The other man disappeared into the shadows. John watched him go and wondered how many people would have to die before the nightmare ended.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Elliot's third meeting with Vincent was to take place back at the carousel. As he got out of the car, he tugged his jacket into place and looked at his bodyguard.

"Ten minutes."

"Right." The guard nodded.

The car door slammed behind him, but Elliot hardly noticed. His thoughts were on Vincent. And on Cathy.

The door of the carousel building was unlocked again, and Elliot stepped inside, searching the shadows. "Vincent," he called in a low voice.

There was no sign of him, and Elliot moved around the carousel, peering into the darkness. He was so intent on his search that he jumped when a voice called out behind him.

"Hello, Mr. Burch."

He spun around. Two men had followed him into the building. He knew them both. One—short and bald, with the soft contours and constipated expression of a banker—was Arvin Cates. And the other . . .

"Moreno."

Moreno shook his head almost sadly. "You must be crazy, Burch. What could be worth all this?"

"You wouldn't understand," Elliot said.

"Probably not."

Casually, Cates pulled out a gun, and for a second Elliot couldn't move. Arvin was a businessman, not an assassin. A pencil pusher. What the hell was he doing?

There was an explosion of sound as Cates fired, but the shot went wide, and Elliot didn't wait for him to try again. He ducked and ran, keeping the carousel between himself and Cates, counting on it to give him some measure of safety.

Another shot rang out and a bright shower of sparks flew over his head as the bullet ricocheted off a metal post. Elliot cursed himself for a fool. He'd walked wide-eyed into an ambush, and now there were two armed men between himself and the only exit. But there was no time to think about that as more shots rang out and bullets dislodged a chunk of wood from the flank of a carved swan, sending deadly shrapnel flying in all directions. Elliot dropped and rolled, coming to his feet again as another bullet shattered the concrete floor near his head.

Wrapping his hand around a metal support post, Elliot used it to slingshot himself off the back edge of the carousel and around to face his attackers. Only they'd moved, and he was no longer sure where they were. He froze, listening, his eyes wide as he searched the shadows, alert for any hint of movement.

He didn't see them, but he heard their footsteps. They had separated, Moreno circling in one direction, Cates in the other. He was trapped between them, like a bull being herded to the slaughter. Damn!

He saw Cates before Cates saw him. He was passing one of the horses, gun held high, finger poised over the trigger. Elliot waited until Cates was almost upon him. Then he sprang, arms extended, fingers grasping for the gun. They struggled. There was a grunt, and then Moreno's panicked shout.

"Cates!"

Elliot seized on the momentary distraction to slam Cates's arm against an unforgiving pole. There was a snapping sound, a scream of pain, and the gun clattered to the floor. Elliot bent to pick it up. But Cates kicked him before he could close his fingers over it, sending him spinning away with a grunt of pain. In the time it took Elliot to regain his balance, Cates had scooped up the gun and brought it to bear on his heaving chest. _Oh, God. Cathy I'm so sorry._

Suddenly there was a roar and a blur of motion as a giant shape launched itself from the darkness, taking Cates down and out of Elliot's sight. A second fierce snarl was followed by dreadful silence. Elliot strained to see through the darkness. What the hell _was_ it? And why did it seem so familiar? But there was no time to puzzle over it. Moreno was still around, somewhere.

Elliot peered into the shadows, eyes wide as he probed the menacing pools of darkness. There. Moreno was aiming his gun, his eyes full of fear. But not at him. Who, then? Elliot turned.

Vincent. Of course. He should have recognized the hulking shape at once.

Moreno fired. And then fired again. Two shots in quick succession. Elliot was certain Vincent had been hit. He must have been. But Vincent didn't even slow down, he just growled low in his throat and kept moving. Elliot turned away, unwilling to watch what happened next. But there was just a single sharp cry of fear and pain.

And then the awful silence returned.

Elliot turned back in time to see Vincent fall to his knees. He scrambled across the carousel to him, reaching out a hand to help, ignoring Moreno's sprawled and bloodied body. Vincent wrapped his hand around Elliot's arm and struggled to his feet. Then he turned, and Elliot saw his face for the first time.

The shock of it stunned him. Long tangled hair, intelligent eyes filled with pain and remorse—and features more catlike than human.

What the hell?

For a long moment, Vincent held his gaze. Then, without speaking, he turned and stumbled away.

"Vincent!" Elliot called, recovering himself. "Vincent!" He ran, cutting through the carousel in the direction Vincent had disappeared. But he was too late. Vincent had already gone.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Catherine had been hiding just outside the carousel, safely disguised within the folds of the dark green cloak. She and Vincent had arrived late, detained by one of the sentries for a series of questions that Vincent had answered patiently even though she'd sensed the tension in him, the need to be on his way. Afterwards, he'd taken her hand and led her quickly through the tunnels, admonishing her once again to stay hidden. He'd been about to leave her when the sound of gunshots pulled his head up and around.

"Go!" he'd ordered as he'd left her at a run. "Go!" There'd been fear in his voice. For her? For Elliot? Catherine didn't know.

But she hadn't left. Instead she'd stood with her heart in her throat and listened to the battle being waged inside. She heard Vincent's roar, and then two more gunshots, and then a sudden burst of pain ripped through her, pain so intense her knees nearly gave way. She recognized the sensation. She'd felt it all too recently.

The gunshots were followed by eerie silence.

"Oh, God. No! Vincent!" She ran, desperate to find him, to _see_ him. Not caring that she might be seen as well.

And then he stumbled out of the shadows, his cloak in disarray, his hair scattered wildly over his shoulders.

She ran to him, catching him in her arms as he stumbled. "Vincent!"

"Must . . . get . . . Below."

She pulled his arm across her shoulders and flung her other arm around his waist, ignoring the tug of her stitches in her desperation to help him. She felt the warm sticky dampness of his blood, saw the terrible, spreading stain on his shirt.

"I'll get you to Father, Vincent. I'll get you there, but you have to help me."

He nodded weakly and they wove an unsteady path through the shadows to the safe haven of the drainage ditch.

It seemed to Catherine as though it took hours to make the short journey. Beside her, Vincent's breath came in short, tight gasps, and his fingers tightened painfully around hers. She kept up a steady stream of quiet encouragement, and though later she'd have no recollection of the actual words, he kept moving, kept putting one foot in front of the other.

And then they were there, and Catherine yanked open the metal grate and led Vincent into the cool darkness. "Wait here," she said, helping him to lean against the wall. "I have to close the gate."

He nodded, and she hurried back. It took her only a moment to latch the steel bars and hit the switch to slide the concrete panel into place, but when she turned back Vincent had slid down to lie in the dirt, and a dark stain was spreading beneath him.

She dropped down beside him, moved his hair out of the way, and made sure he was breathing. She whispered a desperate plea for him to hang on, leapt to her feet, and ran. There was a sentry point not too far away, and she found Jamie there. The girl's eyes widened when Catherine skidded to a stop.

"Catherine, what is it? What's happened?"

"It's Vincent. He's hurt. Get Father! Hurry!"

Jamie nodded and turned to send out the emergency message on the pipes. Catherine didn't wait for her to finish. She ran back to Vincent. Kneeling by his side, she talked to him, her voice urgent with fear.

"Stay with me, Vincent. Father's coming. You're going to be all right. Please . . . hang on." Somehow she found the strength to roll him onto his back. She grabbed a handful of his cloak to hold against the wound, putting pressure behind it, trying desperately to stop the steady flow of blood.

She didn't know how long she stayed by his side, talking to him, begging him not to leave her. And then Father was there. And William. She looked up at them and realized her face was wet with tears, her vision blurred with them.

"Help him, Father."

Father dropped his cane and fell to his knees by Vincent's side. Tearing open his medical bag, he pulled out a pair of scissors and cut away Vincent's shirt, mumbling a quiet oath when he saw the wounds. Quickly, he bandaged them. Then he looked up at William.

"Help me get him to his chamber," he said urgently. "And Jamie, send out a call on the pipes. Have Mary meet us there. Make sure she brings the surgical kit."

Catherine blinked. She hadn't even been aware of Jamie's presence, so focused was she on Vincent. But before she could say anything, Jamie was off again at a run.

When they reached Vincent's chamber, Father turned to Catherine. "You should wait outside," he said quietly. "Until we finish."

"No." She shook her head once, sharply. "I need to be with him."

Father looked at her and sighed, but there was no time to argue. "All right, then. Come along."

It was a long time before Father said anything else other than quiet requests to Mary. Finally, he stood back with a sigh. "That's it," he said. "The rest is up to Vincent."

"Father—"

He looked over at her, tired and worried.

"Will he be okay?"

Father gazed at Vincent for a long time before answering. "I think so, yes."

And then somehow the world was going gray, and her head felt light, as though it might float away, and Father's arms were around her as he guided her down into a chair.

"Easy, now." He caught her shoulders, pushing her head down. "Take slow, deep breaths."

She did, and the world swam back into focus.

"You must be careful, Catherine. You still aren't fully recovered yourself." He looked concerned, and she saw his eyes go to her arm. Luckily, her own wound had not reopened with her exertions, and he nodded in satisfaction as he looked back over at Vincent. "He'll sleep for a while," he said. "You should get some rest as well."

"I will, Father. But I'm staying here."

Father didn't question her decision. "I've seen Vincent sleep in that chair on more than one occasion. I suppose it'll do for you as well."

Catherine smiled and touched his sleeve. "Thank you, Father."

He'd been busy with his medical bag, but now he looked at her, puzzled. "For what?"

"For understanding."

"Ahh . . . well, I'm not so old that I don't recognize a hopeless battle when I see one." He smiled tiredly. "I'll be back to check on him in an hour or two. Call me if there's any change in his condition."

"I will."

And then it was Catherine's turn to sit beside the bed, to hold Vincent's hand, and to read the comforting words of _Great Expectations_, her soft voice lingering in the darkened corners of the quiet room.

**xXx**

**xXx**

_Cold. So cold. And wind howling through the tunnels like a living thing. He moves slowly, pushing through the icy gale. Ahead of him, a steady banging sound—the iron gate blown open and closed again by the wind. Why isn't it latched? _

_As he nears the gate, snow blows into his face, coating his hair and clothes. He puts up a hand to shield his eyes, and keeps moving. The wind blows harder, and icicles tremble over his head. Then he stumbles. Beneath his feet, a form. He stops. Looks down. Something is buried in the snow. Something oddly familiar. He lifts his head and scans the surface of the blowing drifts. There. Ahead. What is that? He takes another step, shivering now, forcing his feet to move. _

_And then he recognizes it. An arm, bent at an odd angle and raised into the air as though grasping for . . . what? Rescue? Only it's too late. There can be no rescue here . . ._

"No!" Vincent sat up, breaking out of the dream. "No!"

And then Catherine was there, her hand warm and alive on his arm. "Vincent! What is it?"

He struggled to catch his breath, the fear still pulsing through his veins. "I was . . . lost. In the storm."

"You were dreaming," she said. "There is no storm. You're safe. In your chamber."

He turned, looking around, trying to place his surroundings. "I . . . went out last night. I was Above. In the park."

"I know. With Elliot." She hesitated, and he heard the fear in her voice when she continued. "You were shot." Her hands were gentle on his shoulders. "Rest, now."

His breath was still coming in short gasps as he lay back against the pillows, and she soothed him, pushing his hair off his face and straightening the blankets. "It'll be all right," she said softly. "I'll be here."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Father felt very old as he faced Steven across the dimly lit chamber. It was a common issue, really. Certainly it was one he'd had to handle before. But the timing of this lapse was particularly unfortunate in light of Catherine and Vincent's dangerous search for their missing son.

William's anger cut across the heavy silence. "It's the second time you've fallen asleep on watch!" It was well-known among the tunnel-dwellers that William preferred to handle problems himself, and being forced to bring this one to Father's attention would likely leave him in a bad mood for days.

"Is this true, Steven?" Father asked.

They were in Father's chamber—Father and William and Steven and Brooke. Steven looked chastened, ashamed, his eyes not quite meeting Father's.

"I never meant to," he said. "I . . . was tired, that's all. I didn't get much sleep."

"You didn't get any sleep at all," William said.

"How long has this been going on?" asked Father. "You should have told me. Insomnia can be the first symptom of—" He trailed off as Brooke came to stand beside Steven. The two of them exchanged a glance and Father saw something pass between them. Something familiar.

He sighed. "Oh."

"It's my fault too," Brooke said quickly. "Steven was with me. It's not like there were any intruders or anything. Nobody got hurt."

"This time," Father said. "Look, I understand your wanting to be with someone you care about. But you mustn't ignore your other responsibilities."

"Maybe," said Steven, "if I do some extra turns at sentry duty—"

"Yes." Father stood up and crossed to Steven's side. "I think that would be very fair. And you can start—" He looked from Brooke to Steven and back again. "Tomorrow might be good."

Brooke broke into a wide smile. "Thank you, Father."

Father watched the two of them go and then turned to William with a chuckle. "How long has this been going on?"

William shook his head ruefully. "Last time I looked, they were still fighting over toys."

There was a sound at the chamber entrance and Father looked up to see Jamie standing there. "Catherine needs you right away," she said. "Vincent's waking up."

"Oh thank God." Father grabbed his bag and followed Jamie out of the chamber.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Diana swept the flashlight beam back and forth as she walked. It was cool down here in the tunnels, with a breeze that came from nowhere only to disappear somewhere else. Passageways branched off at odd angles and unpredictable intervals, as though they'd been engineered by Lewis Carroll for the white rabbit. She walked slowly, stopping to make chalk marks on the wall at each intersection. In minutes she came to the spot where she'd turned back the last time she was here.

The opening was gone.

She brought the light up, playing it over the place. There was something odd about the brick. She stepped forward and reached out to touch the wall. Her fingers came away damp. The mortar was fresh, the bricks new. That explained the difference in texture. But who had bricked it up? And why?

In Vincent's chamber, Father had his fingers around Vincent's wrist, his eyes on a stopwatch.

"I dreamt," Vincent said, "that there was a storm in the tunnel."

"He's still feverish." Catherine met Father's eyes. Vincent was awake, but agitated, almost delirious. And she couldn't seem to get his temperature down—no matter how often she changed the cloths on his forehead. She kept a calming hand on Vincent's shoulder as Father worked, moving close again as soon as he was finished.

"We'll get a grip on that soon enough," Father answered reassuringly. "Peter sent down some antibiotics." He turned to put his stethoscope away. "We'll have to watch out for infection, of course. But otherwise, I'd prescribe a few days bed rest."

Without warning, Vincent shoved aside his covers and struggled to his feet. "I have to go Above."

"Vincent!" Catherine reached for him, but Father was there first, catching Vincent as he stumbled.

"That's out of the question," he said as he helped Vincent back into bed. "I took two bullets out of you last night." He pulled the covers back into place. "And you've been running a fever for hours. You're in no condition to go anywhere." He turned back to his bag. "I'll get William to bring you up a light meal. If you think you can manage some food? You need your strength." He lowered his voice, turning to Catherine, who'd come to stand beside him. "Keep him in bed. And if there's any change at all in his condition, call me at once."

"He's burning up," she said. She felt so helpless.

"I know. It frightens me too. Maybe the antibiotics will help. You know how quickly he heals. But with this massive blood loss—"

"Isn't there anything else we can do?"

"No." Father shook his head. "The only cure is time. And he must not reopen those wounds. Any more blood loss, and—" He let the thought hang, touching her arm before making his way out of the chamber.

Catherine watched him go and then turned back to Vincent. She moistened a fresh cloth with cool water and laid it gently against his forehead, hoping to bring the raging fever under control. Then, instead of returning to the chair, she sat down on the bed beside him. Putting her arm around his waist, she lowered her head to rest on his stomach.

As she drifted off to sleep, she felt the touch of his hand on her hair.


	13. Chapter 13

Gabriel kept his menagerie of big cats in a fenced and wooded enclosure behind the main mansion. Each carefully selected animal had its own cage and caretaker. The panther was both his newest, and his favorite cat. Gabriel watched it pace. Its coat gleamed in the moonlight, and when it snarled, drawing an answering snarl from the jaguar in the next cage, the sound made the hairs on the back of Gabriel's neck stand up. The panther was sleek, its muscles lean and powerful. It could kill a man in seconds. Gabriel had witnessed it himself.

"Cold night." Snow's voice came from several feet away.

"Yes." Gabriel turned away from the cage. "How long have you been there?"

"Just long enough to make sure you were alone."

The panther paced, its tail twitching, irritation rumbling in its throat like distant thunder.

"I have a job for you."

"I'm retired." Snow's white hair gleamed in the moonlight.

"Unretire"

"Why should I?"

"Because there's money in it."

Snow shook his head. "You're boring me."

"For old time's sake."

"For old time's sake—" Snow stepped closer, and the panther paused in its pacing, eyes reflecting shards of moonlight. "I could kill you quick."

"You could try. But then there'd be no one left to blame." Gabriel gazed at the restless cat, ignoring the threat in Snow's tone. "You'd be all alone."

Killing Raul had been the beginning of a career for Snow, and though he claimed he hated his work, Gabriel knew his brother reveled in the challenge, delighted in the taste of blood and the smell of fear. But he also knew that in those rare moments when Snow felt the small, sharp teeth of remorse, he blamed Gabriel for all of it. After all, it had been because of Gabriel that he had first learned the fierce joy and power that came from killing.

Gabriel was Snow's only weakness, his sole vulnerability. And both men knew it.

"I heard about your little war," Snow said. "It's no challenge for me to kill a guy like Elliot Burch."

"Burch is an inconvenience." Two cages away, the white tiger roared, and Gabriel waited until quiet returned before continuing. "I wouldn't dream of wasting a man of your talents on him." He turned away from the restless panther. "You've heard about our little merry-go-round murders?"

Snow's pale eyes gleamed with veiled interest. "Friends of yours?"

"I had years invested in Moreno." And until the last few months, the idiot D.A. hadn't even realized he was being manipulated. The conquest had been one of Gabriel's biggest triumphs, and his hands tightened into fists at his sides as he contemplated the loss. But Snow just shrugged.

"Too bad politicians don't come with a warranty."

"Do _you_?" Gabriel took a step closer to his brother. "Moreno and Cates were ripped apart—eviscerated by something with inhuman strength and speed." He pulled a video tape out of his pocket. "The police are keeping a lid on it. They seem to think the particulars might be too ugly for public consumption." He extended the tape. An offering. A challenge.

There was a long pause during which Snow stared at the tape, and Gabriel could almost hear him weighing the pros and cons of the job in his mind. He reached out, and for a brief moment their hands rested fingertip to fingertip. Matching rings gleamed in the moonlight. But an instant later, Snow turned away empty-handed.

Gabriel smiled—a slow, brittle smile that spoke more of hubris than of humor. "You might be interested in this," he said, knowing his brother wouldn't be able to resist the challenge. "The night this tape was made, eight armed men were ripped apart. Just like Moreno." He laid the tape down on a low stone wall and stepped away.

Snow's gaze settled on the tape once more. This time he reached out casually and picked it up. "Creature feature," he sneered as he walked away. "Maybe I should make popcorn."

"Snow!" Gabriel called, just loud enough for his brother to hear. "I have a child." Pride and triumph straightened his spine and lifted his chin. "A son." He loved the sound of that. A son. A successor. Source of his ultimate victory.

Snow kept walking. "I don't kill children anymore," he said over his shoulder. "Not even yours."

In the cage, the panther snarled.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Early morning light brightened Diana's loft as she watered her plants. In the background, a sleepy disc jockey related the news and weather to a city just reaching for its first cup of coffee.

"Authorities are still scratching their heads over the deaths of Manhattan District Attorney John Moreno and an unidentified companion at the Central Park Carousel last Wednesday night. As the investigation continues, it has become increasingly apparent that Moreno had ties to organized crime, though it is unknown if his death resulted from criminal activity. The district attorney's office and the mayor are offering no comment at this time."

Of course they weren't. The manner of Moreno's death wasn't exactly fit for public consumption. How had they managed to keep that out of the media, anyway? When Joe had told her about it, the shock and dismay in his voice had made her want to reach out to him, to offer comfort. There'd been an awkward moment before she'd dropped her hands to her side and backed away.

"The mayor announced today that he would choose an interim D.A. to serve the remainder of Moreno's term by the end of the week."

That would be interesting. Joe's office must be in an uproar. Maybe he'd be too busy to ask her about Catherine Chandler for a few days. The breathing room would be nice.

Diana turned off the radio and crossed to Cathy's bedraggled little rose bush as Mark came into the room rubbing sleep out of his eyes. The plant sat on a little table at the end of the couch, and Diana couldn't help but think it looked a little like an aged and neglected queen.

"What's that?" Mark asked, crouching beside her.

"Rose bush." She tipped a little water over it.

Mark looked doubtful. "A former rose bush, you mean."

She smiled and plucked a dead leaf out of the pot.

"Don't you usually prefer _live_ plants?"

"It was Cathy Chandler's. I found it out on her terrace." Which didn't exactly answer his question, and yet, to her, it made perfect sense.

She talked to the plant then, a habit that always made Mark shake his head. "Come on, Baby." She tilted a little more water into the rich soil. "Have another drink. I _know_ you're going to make it."

"I don't think so." Mark wore a look of tolerant amusement that irritated her, but she left it alone, unwilling to start her day with an argument.

"No," she said. "This one's got life in it. I can feel it."

He stood up and reached for his jacket. "Am I going to see you for dinner tonight?"

She looked up at him with a regretful half smile. "Not tonight."

"Spelunking again?"

She nodded, and he shook his head as he swung his jacket over his shoulder and headed for the elevator. "Only in Manhattan."

**xXx**

**xXx**

In his chamber, Vincent leaned back in his chair, his eyes downcast, his hand wrapped around Catherine's and resting in his lap. He'd just finished telling her what had happened at the carousel. She had listened quietly, her fingers tightening around his when he described the gunmen.

"Moreno," she said. "It must've been."

He nodded. "This is what I believe, as well."

"But the other man. Who was he?"

"This I do not know." He looked at her with regret in his eyes. "I'm sorry. I know John Moreno was your friend."

Catherine shook her head. "No, he wasn't. Not really. But he was someone I looked up to. I thought he was one of the good guys."

"Perhaps something happened to him, something that made him believe he had no other choice."

"There are always choices, Vincent."

"Yes, but sometimes the choices are hidden," he said. "And we only become aware of them when it is too late."

Did he recognize the double entendre in that comment? Was he thinking of their relationship, and the fears that had nearly cost them their future? Looking into his eyes, she thought maybe he was, and she leaned toward him, her gaze intent on his.

"And sometimes," she said quietly, "life gives you a second chance."

**xXx**

**xXx**

City Hall, always a busy place, was a madhouse on Monday mornings, and Diana blew out an exasperated sigh as she tried to get the elderly clerk's attention. "Excuse me," she said, when the clerk finally drifted close enough to hear her raised voice. "Are these the only maps that you have of the tunnels under Central Park?"

"I'm afraid so." He leaned against the counter, checking the map legends. "What are you looking for?"

"Last night I was underneath this building on Central Park West, and there was this whole network of old brick tunnels down there."

"And you can't find them on the maps." His voice was matter-of-fact. He'd had this request before.

"No, I can't."

"That doesn't surprise me," he said. "There are hundreds of miles of old tunnels down there. Did you know that when they built the subway, they found a station from an earlier subway that had been forgotten for thirty years?"

Diana suspected she had stumbled upon his favorite topic. "No, I didn't."

"It's true!" he said. "Can you imagine? Losing a whole subway station?"

He was settling in for a cozy chat, and though his story was probably a fascinating one, Diana was in a hurry. "Yeah, well just so long as it's not Fourth Street, because that's where I've got to change trains." She collected her things and stood up. "Thank you."

She opened the door as a man was coming in. He had white hair and pale skin, and he said, "Excuse me," very politely as he passed Diana.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Snow surveyed his brother's palatial estate. He'd spent an hour scouting the perimeter, checking out the security arrangements. There were dogs—big wolfish creatures that growled menacingly but took the drugged steaks he offered them with wagging tails. And the guards were useless. The schedule they followed was as predictable as the watch Snow wore on his wrist. It was a simple matter to dispatch one of them and slip inside the compound.

He found Gabriel inside with his treasures. That part, too, was easy. Gabriel was as predictable as his guards, it seemed.

"Gabriel!" he called from the staircase. He held the video tape by two fingers and dangled it over the wrought-iron railing.

Gabriel turned from the statue he'd been admiring. "How did you get in here?"

Snow tossed the tape across to him and strolled down the stairs.

Gabriel caught it single-handed. "I have twenty men patrolling the grounds."

"Nineteen." Snow dropped into a five-hundred-year-old chair and draped his legs over the spindly armrest. "I watched your tape. Then I went to the carousel. Your friend Moreno wounded him. There's blood spots. Faint. NYPD missed it. I followed the trail. It dead ends at a drainage tunnel under the park."

"Sometimes a dead end is the best place to begin."

Snow crossed to where Gabriel stood beside the clay figure. "He's beautiful."

"Yes," Gabriel said. "Qin dynasty grave figure. Two thousand years old."

"I'm not talking about the stupid statue." Snow slung his arm around its shoulders and slapped it on the chest, deliberately provoking Gabriel's dismayed wince. "He's not human."

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "So few of us are these days."

"What do you think he is?"

Gabriel considered the question. Then he smiled coldly. "My enemy."

Snow watched Gabriel's eyes. Words might lie, but eyes always told the truth, and Gabriel's eyes were worried. And tired. It took a lot to worry Gabriel these days, which made this entire adventure that much more fascinating. Too bad Gabe would insist he kill the beast. He would've liked to study it, learn what it was about the creature that terrified his little brother so.

"You're frightened, Gabe. You're not sleeping nights knowing that he's out there somewhere." Big brother was going to have to come to the rescue yet again. "But I'm going to fix it for you. So you can sleep like a baby." Snow started toward the stairs. Then he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "Papa." He spat the last word like a curse.

"Then do it!" Gabriel taunted. "If you can."

Snow spun around, his gun already in his hand. His finger tightened on the sensitive trigger, and an instant later the statue lay in shards at Gabriel's feet.

Snow turned away, satisfied by the appalled look on his brother's face. "I can."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Diana knocked once before pushing open the door to the district attorney's office. The chair was turned away from her, its occupant staring out the window. Spring fever, probably. She knew the feeling.

"Excuse me," she said. "I'm Diana Bennett. I'm looking for the new acting district—" She stopped, startled, when the chair swiveled to reveal Joe Maxwell, an open file in his hands. "Joe."

He closed the folder and dropped it on the desk. "Hi."

"You?" He looked tired, and some of the eager optimism she was used to seeing in his eyes had faded.

"Until the next election anyway." He shrugged. "Weird thing is, the suspension worked out in my favor. With all the dirt turning up on Moreno, it was as good as a commendation."

"You don't look too happy about the promotion."

Joe took in a deep breath and let it out on a sigh. "I used to dream that some day I'd sit behind this desk," he said. "Only I didn't want it to happen this way." He got up and came around to her. "You see, I trusted John Moreno."

"You shouldn't trust anybody," she said, only half joking. She leaned against the edge of the desk. "Better get used to that feeling. You've got no friends in this world, Maxwell."

"I don't believe that." He folded his arms and rested his hip beside hers. Their shoulders brushed, sending an unexpected tingle through her arm.

"Good for you." She gave him a quick, approving smile. "Now. You sent for me."

"Yeah, I did. I want you on the Moreno case."

She looked away. "Does that mean you're taking me off the Cathy Chandler case?"

"It's the same case. I think we both know that."

"Yeah, I guess we do."

He walked back around the desk and picked up the folder he'd been looking at. He glared at it as though he held it personally responsible for what he was about to tell her. After a long moment, he said, "I'm calling off the search for Cathy."

Diana blinked. "Why?"

"I got people riding me." He dropped the folder back on the desk. "And other cases that need the manpower." He shook his head. "If she were alive we'd have found her by now. Besides, the coroner swears that with that kind of blood loss—"

"So it's a homicide again?"

"Yeah." He pushed the folder aside. "Her attorney's been calling me. Wants to know when he can probate her estate."

"She had an estate? I knew she came from a rich family, but—"

"She came from a_very_ rich family. I didn't even want to give her a job here at first. Figured she'd stick around long enough to do a good deed or two and then she'd take off for a cruise around the world or something." He shook his head. "Ironic, isn't it? Moreno was the one who convinced me to give her a try. Pointed out that we were short-handed and she was a pair of legs and a brain." The telephone buzzed, and he glanced over at it. "I should get that."

"Yeah." She straightened and crossed to the door. "I'll be in touch."

"Thanks. And Diana?"

"What?" She turned back, her hand on the knob.

"Watch your back."

**xXx**

**xXx**

_Snow drifts in the tunnels. It piles against the walls as though hiding from the bitter wind. There are icicles hanging from the tunnel ceiling, and the ironwork gate wears a thick coat of ice. Against his will, he moves toward the gate. It's swinging in the wind, clanging dully each time it slams closed. He looks down and sees the dead. There are more of them this time, and he sees several he knows. They are his friends. His family. The feeling of desperation grows as he moves among them, checking for signs of life. Surely they aren't all lost to him? _

_And then he sees it. His own body. It too is covered in a blanket of snow, but he can see the features clearly. He rears back, roaring his fear and anger at the raging wind._

He was shrugging into his cloak when Father rushed in.

"Vincent! Dear God, are you all right?"

"The storm. I saw it coming." He pulled his hair free of the heavy fabric. "Where is Catherine?"

"I insisted she get some sleep," Father said. "Vincent, tell me. What is it? What did you see?"

"Snow howling through the junction door. Wind, cold as death." He shivered, remembering the icy bite of it against his skin.

Father shook his head. "There is no storm, Vincent."

"I could _feel_ it!"

"You had a dream." Father was adamant. Vincent heard the note of desperation his voice, but he didn't have the strength to offer reassurance.

"This was more than a dream." The images lingered in his mind. Ice. Snow. Death. He tugged the hood up over his head.

"Listen to yourself, Vincent! Snow? Wind? That's absurd! No storm can reach us down here. You know that! It's your _fever_ talking."

"No." Vincent was certain he was right about this. There was danger coming to the tunnels. Terrible danger. "I saw the dead. Frozen and faceless. I saw my _own_ death!"

"And now you seek it out? Why?"

"Because I must." Vincent met and held Father's gaze. "If my death is the price that I must pay for her safety, for our _son_, I will pay it gladly."

Ignoring the pain in his chest and Father's desperate, shouted plea, Vincent strode from the room.


	14. Chapter 14

Snow dropped his pack and pulled open the iron grate. The wall behind it felt solid, held in place by some mechanism he couldn't see. No matter. A little C-4 would solve the problem. He pulled a brick of the explosive out of his pack, affixed it to the concrete panel, and backed away. A moment later the barrier shattered in an explosion of noise and dust.

Snow nodded his satisfaction and bent to rummage in his pack again. He was a hunter by trade, but his usual prey lived above ground and preferred daylight to darkness, so he would have to modify his technique a little for this job. Still, in the end, a hunt was a hunt. It was all about stealth. With that thought in mind, he adjusted the sound-amplifying headphones, donned a pair of night vision goggles, and slipped a spare ammo belt over his shoulder. He snapped a round of ammunition into his gun and reached up to turn on the goggles. Around him, the tunnels took on a green tinge, and the rock walls came into sharp focus.

Ready. With a low hum of anticipation, he stepped into the tunnels.

Let the games begin.

Father moved slowly down the steps and into his chamber. He felt as though he carried a great burden on his shoulders, and it was pressing down upon him, forcing him to stoop beneath its weight.

"How is he?" Mary asked.

He looked at her and sighed. "He's gone Above."

"But he can't! He's in no condition—"

Father raised his hands, stopping her in mid-protest. "I know. But he wouldn't listen."

"We ought to go after him," William said. He was leaning against Father's desk, hands shoved into the pockets of his apron. "Bring him back. For his own good."

But Father shook his head. "No!" He saw the surprise in William and Mary's eyes. They hadn't expected the vehement exclamation. But Father knew Vincent, knew how dangerous he could be at times like this. And there was also the chance that Vincent had sensed something true. "But I want you to get a message to Pascal. Tell him I want an all quiet on the pipes. And put all the sentries on full alert."

"Why?" William asked.

Father looked away. "Just . . . just in case."

William exchanged a puzzled glance with Mary, then shrugged and left just as Catherine ran in.

"Father! Vincent's not in his chamber!"

"I know." He crossed to her. "Catherine, perhaps you should sit down."

"Where is he?" She folded her arms across her chest and waited for an answer, steel in her spine and eyes.

"He's gone Above."

"Why?"

Father leaned against the railing, searching for the words that would keep both of them safe. "He had the dream again. Only this time it was worse. Much worse. Catherine . . ." He hesitated, hating to give her more cause for worry. "He believes he saw his own death."

"Oh my God." She turned back the way she had come. "I have to go to him."

"No! You can't!"

She twisted around with a fierce expression in her eyes. "Don't try to stop me, Father."

He reached out to her. "Just listen to what I have to say. After that, if you still feel you must go, I won't stop you."

There was a heartbeat of silence, and then she gave him a single sharp nod.

"Vincent believes that he must confront this threat—whatever it is—in order to keep you safe and to protect your child. What do you think will happen if you go after him and the evil finds you instead? What then?"

"There _is_ no evil, Father. It's just a dream, a . . . figment!"

"Are you absolutely certain of that?" Father asked. "You of all people know how sensitive Vincent is. What if the threat is _real_?"

She stared at him.

"No," he said. "You must stay here. It's the only way. Whatever it is Vincent's gone after, you mustn't distract him."

There were tears in her eyes as she stared at him. Finally, she nodded again. With heavy steps, she made her way down the stairs and over to a chair. She dropped into it and covered her face with her hands. "Father, what am I going to do?"

He crossed to her and squeezed her shoulder. "You'll do what I'm doing," he said. "You'll wait. And you'll pray."

**xXx**

**xXx**

The pipe chamber was eerily silent. It was a strange sensation for Pascal, who crossed the room quickly, coming to a stop near Zach.

"What's wrong?"

Zach looked up from his position on the floor. "An 'all quiet'."

Pascal kept his voice calm, not wanting to alarm Zach, who was already watching him with fear in his eyes. Still, an all-quiet was an extreme measure used only in the event of a serious threat to the tunnel community. "What's going on?"

"I don't know." With a shrug of his thin shoulders, Zach got to his feet. "Father put all the sentries on special alert."

"An intruder?" It was the only reason Pascal could think of for shutting down the community's communication system and alerting the sentries, but if it was an intruder, it must be a very dangerous one for this combination of steps to seem necessary.

Zach shook his head. "No one's seen anything."

Maybe Father only suspected the breach and was taking preventive measures. "Have you heard from all the outposts?"

"Yes. Except Steven. He's down by the water tunnel."

Steven wasn't exactly their most reliable sentry lately, so the fact that he hadn't reported in wasn't really cause for worry. Still . . . "He's probably asleep. Send it again. Use the emergency reply code."

Zach nodded and turned to do as he was told.

Pascal tried not to worry, but icy fingers climbed up his spine as he stared at the chamber entrance.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Snow pressed the earpiece tight against his ear, straining to hear any ambient sound that might drift his way in the darkness. There. A faint rustling on his right. He turned and headed toward the sound, walking slowly and stopping often to listen.

After a few cautious moments, the rustling sound resolved into two voices. They were young. One male and one female. The girl was saying something ridiculous about the boy's eyes. Snow resisted the urge to snort in disgust, instead moving closer and listening for the faintest hint that they had heard his approach.

"What's the matter?" The girl sounded frustrated and confused. The boy must have interrupted their make-out session.

"The pipes. Better go check."

The kid sounded worried. He had good reason to be, though he didn't know it yet.

There was a series of scuffling sounds followed by the brush of rubber-soled shoes on a metal ladder. The sounds were coming closer, but they were approaching from somewhere beneath Snow's feet. He shifted his gun and aimed it in the direction of the sound, turning his head from side to side, sweeping the corridor with the night vision goggles. There. Just a few feet ahead of him, a hole, low in the tunnel wall.

A panel slid aside, and Snow didn't wait for a clear target. He fired. Five shots in quick succession. He heard a body fall and then the girl screamed. Why, he wondered, did girls always scream? It was such a useless waste of energy, and it always gave away their position. He sighed. She would have to be dealt with.

But before he killed her, the girl would tell him her dead boyfriend's name.

**xXx**

**xXx**

The silence in the pipe chamber was deafening. Pascal wandered restlessly from pipe to pipe, taking out his stethoscope every so often and pressing it against the metal, then shaking his head and moving on again.

"Any news on Steven?" he asked Zach.

Zach shook his head. "No."

"Did you use the emergency reply code?"

"Twice. Do you think something's wrong?"

Steven was still young, a man-child who hadn't yet learned to control his passions. If Brooke was with him, he would be distracted. But he was also one of their best sentries, and he would never get so caught up in Brooke that he'd ignore an emergency signal. Something was wrong.

"Who's manning the outpost underneath Belvedere Castle?"

"Old Sam."

"He's the closest." Pascal gestured at the pipes. "Have him check on Steven. Tell him to be careful."

**xXx**

**xXx**

The girl was fast, he'd give her that much. But she was clumsy. Panicked. It made her easy prey. Snow caught up to her quickly, blocking her escape. She tripped and fell to the floor at his feet and he watched her scrabble in the dirt, unmoved by her fear. Pity, he thought. He'd told Gabe he didn't kill children anymore. He resented this one for turning him into a liar.

"What was his name?" he asked coldly. "The boy's name."

"Steven." There were tears in her voice. And terror. He liked the terror. Relished it. It gave him power.

"Steven." He said it slowly, savoring it. "And yours?" He nudged her with his foot. "Look at me!" Another nudge, harder this time. "Your name."

She choked it out between gasping lips. "Br . . . Brooke."

He backed away a step, almost feeling sorry for her. She was no more than a whining bundle of rags, hardly worth the cost of the bullet that would kill her. "Close your eyes, Brooke. You won't feel any pain."

"Stop!"

Snow looked up, startled and angry. He'd neglected his surroundings. It could easily have been a fatal mistake. But it was just a weak old man with a length of steel pipe in his hands. Almost casually, Snow brought up his gun. Fired once. Again. The old man went down as the girl screamed again and ran off. He was about to go after her when he heard an unholy roar rising from somewhere below.

His prey.

Ignoring Brooke's panicked flight, he turned toward the sound.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent ran. He knew the intruder was behind him. He'd lured him here deliberately, enticing him away from the tunnel community, drawing him deeper into the dark places. Now he paused, trying to catch his breath, and looked back. The intruder had stopped for some reason. Vincent had to get his attention again. He turned back, moving slowly now. Watching. Listening.

There. He saw a gleam of red light. But from what source? And what was its purpose? Then he remembered something Mouse had told him, about magical glasses that helped a man see in the dark. Vincent realized then that this was more than a simple matter of an armed intruder. This man was a hunter. And he was hunting for Vincent. But why? And who had sent him?

He waited silently, watching the man's head tilt as he listened to the darkness. So, he thought, not just the goggles, then. Something was aiding his hearing as well. These devices must be destroyed. Vincent eased closer, biding his time, positioning himself just so . . .

There.

The man spun toward him at the same moment Vincent knocked the cap off the steam pipe. Searing steam rushed out, and the man screamed in pain. With a roar, Vincent shoved him into the billowing steam and rushed past, moving away, moving deeper, moving down. Gunshots sounded behind him, but Vincent ignored them. He'd already rounded the corner. He was safe.

For now.

**xXx**

**xXx**

The mood in Father's chamber was grim. Brooke sat sobbing quietly, her hands over her eyes as Mary tried to comfort her and William and Pascal looked on. Father watched Catherine. Her head was bent, her hands over her eyes. There was tension in her—as if she were strung tight and at any moment might explode into action. It was difficult to sit here and do nothing, he knew, difficult knowing that Vincent was in danger and there was nothing she could do to help. It was a feeling he had experienced himself more times than he could count. He crossed the room and rested his hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently in silent comfort.

"It's my fault," Pascal said. "I should've gone myself. But Sam was the closest." He took a breath. "I sent him to be killed."

"Pascal, no," said William. "You couldn't have known."

Jamie ran in, out of breath. "Mouse heard gunfire."

Catherine's head jerked up, and she stiffened beneath Father's fingers.

"Where?" Father asked urgently.

"Down in the Serpentine, under the north well. They were headed down."

"Vincent's leading him away from us," said William.

"I'm going to go get my crossbow," Jamie said, already turning back.

"Come back!" Father called, releasing Catherine and moving toward the steps. "Jamie!"

She turned, anger in her eyes.

"For God's sake! Do you think you're going to stop this _butcher_ with a child's toy?" He took a breath and lowered his voice. "Vincent _saw_ his own death. He's gone up there to buy _our_ lives with his own." He glanced at Catherine, sending her a silent apology. "'A greater love hath no man than this. That a man lay down his life for his friends.'" He looked at each of the others in turn. "Now please. Let us not throw away this gift."

Catherine's eyes were wide with fear as she held Father's gaze, her knuckles white against the arms of the chair. Father knew it took every ounce of strength she possessed not to go after Vincent.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent was breathing hard. Weakness washed over him in great waves. And still he kept going, kept drawing the white-haired intruder farther away. Only now he had a plan, a goal. It wasn't much, and it might not work, but he had to try. He paused, leaned against the wall, and gasped for air while he fought the pain in his chest. The stitches had opened. His shirt showed two growing red stains.

There. Behind him. The man was close again. He had to keep moving.

A few minutes later he dropped down off the last ledge, and the mists rose up around him, welcoming him. The structure of this place, with its unusual formations, would bounce his voice from one end of the cavern to the other, making it impossible to trace his location. And the mists would cover his movements, hiding him from the hunter's eyes. He hid behind a stalagmite and watched the intruder arrive. The sight of him, with his weapons of death and his confident air, provoked a low growl from the back of Vincent's throat.

The man moved cautiously, his head swinging from side to side as he walked, and Vincent waited until he'd stepped all the way down to the floor before he roared. The sound bounced and echoed through the cavern, magnified by the rock formations and made more terrifying by the cold silver mists.

The man cringed and yanked the listening device out of his ears. Vincent's nostrils flared as he picked up the scent of the man's fear.

"Okay!" The man yelled. "That's one for you!" He stared into the shadows, but he no longer had the goggles, and without them, Vincent knew he couldn't be seen. Still, bravado and fear were a dangerous combination.

"I know you're out there—" The man fired wildly, emptying his gun. Then he reloaded, muttering to himself.

The hunter's white hair and pale skin stood out against the stone pillar, making him easy to see. Vincent watched him in silence.

"You can run. Hide." The man shrugged. "It doesn't matter. When you look behind you, I'll be there."

Vincent moved, slipping silently into the next cavern. Flinging off his cloak, he used it to bait his trap. The man must have heard something, because he fired, and Vincent heard stone shatter behind him. Cursing, the man tried to run after him, but blinded by the darkness and the shifting mists, he tripped, losing his gun. Vincent turned, watching in silence while the white-haired man scrabbled in the dirt. He was calm, now. This was _his_ territory.

The hunter found his gun and scrambled to his feet. He pressed back against a tall pillar, panting, his eyes wide. Vincent observed the man's raw fear impassively. He felt no sympathy. The man had come here to kill him. To hurt his family. He would not be allowed to leave alive.

"Where are you?" the hunter asked.

"Here," Vincent replied quietly.

"I can't _see_ you."

"I know."

"Do you have a name?"

"Yes."

The man edged around the pillar. "I always learn the names. _All_ the names. Do you?"

"I know their faces." Every one imprinted on his mind, like so many bloodstained squares on a patchwork quilt. It was part of the price he paid for his strength—to never be allowed to forget.

"I don't suppose you want to call this a draw—"

Vincent growled a response.

"I guess that's a no."

"_He_ sent you."

"Who? Gabriel?"

"Is that his name?" Vincent would remember it always. And one day soon, he would kill the man who bore it.

"One of them." The man blinked and opened his eyes wide again. "It's _your_ child, isn't it. That's why he wants it."

Vincent didn't bother to answer.

The man took something from his finger and laid it on a low stalagmite. "Here," he said. "A peace offering." He backed away. "You still there? I'm tired of playing ring-around-the-rosie."

Vincent knew the moment the hunter spotted his cloak, because the tone of his voice changed, growing confident again as the smell of fear subsided.

"That game ends how?" The man shifted, balancing his body and steadying his weapon in his hands. "We all fall down?"

He fired. Five times. Ten. He kept firing until the weapon clicked on an empty chamber. Then he crossed the cavern to the large, shadowy shape at its other end.

Vincent lowered his hands from his ears and watched the hunter lift the cloak from the rock. He heard the man curse, saw him fling the cloak aside. Then there was a low rumble above the hunter's head.

The hunter screamed as the avalanche of rocks broke over him, crushing his body beneath hundreds of pounds of fallen limestone.

Vincent waited for the dust to settle, breathing shallowly against the pain in his chest. When it was safe, he crossed the chamber to see what the man had left on the stalagmite.

It was a ring. The smooth, cold surface of it burned against his palm. He dropped it in his pocket and looked over at the pile of stone. _Gabriel_, he thought. Gabriel was the name of the man who had sent this hunter to the tunnels—the man who had stolen his son and tried to kill Catherine.

He would send this man a message. This . . . Gabriel.

Turning, he began heaving aside the fallen rocks.

**xXx**

**xXx**

In Father's chambers, Catherine lifted her head. Her eyes were filled with tears, and her chest ached. Vincent was in pain, and he was exhausted. But he was alive.

"It's over," she said in a dull voice. "It's done." She stood up, shrugging off Father's hand. "Let me go."

She didn't look back as she left the chamber. She kept her head up, and her shoulders back, and she put one foot in front of the other. She wouldn't stop until she found him, until she held him in her arms and could see for herself that he was safe.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent carried the body to the place where they had tried to kill Catherine, the place where their son had been born. He dropped it on the rooftop, careless of how it fell.

Then he spread his legs wide and lifted his hands to the sky and roared his challenge to the night.

"Gabriel!"


	15. Chapter 15

She met him in the park. She wore the cloak, and her eyes were filled with fear, and she caught him in her arms and whispered his name in the darkness. He held her close and let out a breath of relief that she was here, that she was safe.

"How did you know?" he asked as they turned, her arm tight around his waist. His chest burned where the stitches had opened, making it hard to breathe. "How did you know where to find me?"

"I'm not sure. I just knew." She guided him toward the tunnels and safety.

He didn't speak again until they reached the tunnel entrance. It required all his strength, all his concentration, just to remain on his feet. But the name plagued him, repeating itself over and over in his mind until he felt himself in danger of shouting out another challenge.

"Catherine, I know his name."

"Whose name?"

"The man—" He stumbled and caught himself, leaning heavily on her. Where did she find the strength? "The man who took our son."

She opened the grate, helped him inside, and closed it again. Then she was back at his side, pressed close, small and soft and warm and wonderful.

"Tell me," she said.

"It's Gabriel."

"Gabriel," she echoed. "We'll find him, Vincent. Together. I know we'll find him."

"Yes."

Her presence, her love, gave him strength. Slowly, they made their way to his chambers. Father and Mary were already there, and as Catherine guided Vincent to the bed, Father opened his medical bag.

"I was afraid of this," he said, worry in his eyes. "The stitches have reopened. I'm going to have to repair them."

Vincent nodded.

Catherine helped him with his shirt, her eyes on his, her hands gentle against his skin. For a moment, he wanted to stop her. To warn her. But he found he didn't have the strength even for that. She eased the shirt over his head, set it aside, and turned to take his hand as he lay back against the pillows. He saw no trace of fear in her eyes. No hint of distaste.

She stepped aside as Father bent over him, and he felt her reach for his boots, loosening and then removing them one at a time. Then she was back, her hand smoothing the hair away from his brow when he winced in pain.

She was still by his side when Father finished and stepped back to put his equipment away.

"Get some rest, Vincent." Father's voice was gruff as he turned back to look at the two of them. "I'll be nearby if you need me."

It was Catherine who answered. "Thank you, Father." There was a deeper meaning in her voice, and had Vincent not been so tired, he might have asked about it. Then Father left, and they were alone.

"Rest now," Catherine said, taking his hand in hers. "I'll be near."

"I need you close." His voice sounded weak to his own ears.

She pulled the blankets up, tucking them in around him. "I'm not going anywhere."

Vincent struggled against the weight of his exhaustion. "No. I meant—" He'd never found it easy to state his own needs, his own desires. "Would you . . . lie beside me?"

He sensed her surprise and then her pleasure as she bent to take off her shoes. A moment later he felt her slight weight as she curled up against him, her head on his shoulder, her arm resting across his stomach.

"Okay?" she asked softly.

"Yes," he murmured. He turned his head, buried his face in the silk of her hair, and held her close against him. "Thank you."

And then he closed his eyes and slipped into a dreamless sleep.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Elliot Burch had a soft spot for street musicians. He never walked past one without stopping to listen, often staying to talk for a moment before dropping a generous tip in a hat or an instrument case and then moving on, back to his life, back to his reality.

This night was no different. The musician's clothing was patched and worn, but his saxophone glowed with the warm, golden patina that bespoke a lifetime of careful treatment. He had a talent for jazz, weaving a graceful melody that warmed the chilly night and slowed the footsteps of passing pedestrians. As always, Elliot was drawn to it. He stopped to listen to the mournful lament, waving his bodyguard away.

"That's some beautiful music," he said, when the last note had faded away.

"Sweet music, Mr. Burch. Sweet, and sad."

"You know me?"

"Everyone knows Elliot Burch." The man bowed slightly. "But I'd be mighty proud to shake your hand."

"The honor is mine," Elliot said with a smile. He extended his hand, and the old man stood up to accept it. Elliot was startled by the press of paper against his palm.

"Name's Clarence," the musician said, his keen eyes on Elliot's face. "You can hear me most Wednesdays down at the mission on Delancey if you like." He released Elliot's hand, and Elliot glanced down at the folded note. Curiosity waged a silent battle with prudence as he fought the urge to open it, conscious of the silent warning in the old musician's gaze. Finally, he slipped it into his pocket unread, earning a slight nod of approval. "Donations are gratefully accepted."

Elliot dropped a fifty in the man's saxophone case and turned to follow his bodyguard to the waiting car. The paper burned in his pocket, but he resisted the urge to pull it out.

"What was that he was playing?" asked the bodyguard, as he waited for Elliot to settle himself in the car.

Distracted, Elliot shook his head. "Saxophone," he said.

Elliot waited until the car was in motion to slide the paper out of his pocket and snap on the overhead light. But the lingering sense of unreality only deepened when he read the brief message.

_Pier 39—The Compass Rose. Midnight._

**xXx**

**xXx**

On clear nights, Diana and Mark often set up a telescope on the balcony. Tonight they wore heavy sweaters against the chilly night air, and took turns gazing up at the sky.

"Found your comet yet?" Mark asked.

She stepped away so he could look. "It's too faint."

"You're fighting New York City. All this light pollution."

"I guess we should be grateful we can still see the moon, huh?" She leaned against the stone wall, gazing up at the sky.

He left the telescope and crossed to her side. "Maybe it's a beggar's comet."

"A what?"

"You know, in _Julius Caesar_." He looked at her, humor glinting in his expressive dark eyes. "Come on. I know you've read _Julius Caesar_. Ninth grade. It's required. I just taught it last year."

She looked away with a laugh. "Oh, please. Training bra and braces. I'm still trying to forget."

He grinned, and they gazed up at the sky for a moment. Then he sighed. "I'd better be getting home. I'm subbing in the South Bronx tomorrow. I'm gonna need all the sleep I can get."

"I'll call you." At least, she would if she remembered. Her track record in that regard wasn't exactly stellar of late.

Nodding, he left her there on the roof. Alone with the night, she stared up at the stars.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent recovered quickly from his wounds, and soon restlessness drove him from his bed. He prowled the tunnels, plagued by a deepening sense of danger and his own feelings of helplessness. Catherine often walked with him, and though he knew she was troubled by his mood, she didn't press him.

Until Samantha asked him when he would return to his nightly readings, and he snapped at her impatiently, frustrated by the trivial nature of her request at a time when all he could think about was his rising sense that time was slipping away.

Catherine had given him a sharp look and knelt to speak with Samantha, but he'd walked on, aware of the rudeness of his response and yet unable to bring himself to apologize. Catherine caught up with him a few minutes later, bringing him to a stop with a light touch on his arm and a worried look in her eyes.

"Tell me," she said.

Vincent leaned his back against the tunnel wall. Unwilling to alarm her, he cast about for a topic that would answer her concern without burdening her with additional fear.

"The carousel is no longer safe," he said, settling on a topic that would, at best, prove a temporary distraction. "A new meeting place had to be chosen."

"Where?"

"The shipyard." He took Catherine's hands in his. "You must promise me that you will stay here," he said. "The shipyard is too far, the way too dangerous."

"But why the shipyard? Surely there are other places, safer places."

He shook his head. "The_ Compass Rose_ belongs to a helper. A fisherman. The place where he keeps her is dark and little traveled by others. It's a good place."

She pulled her hands away and paced down the corridor. When she turned back, she had her arms folded across her stomach.

"I don't think I can do this, Vincent. I don't have the strength."

"You have the strength, Catherine. I know you do."

"To sit here and do nothing? While you're out there? Alone and in danger?" She shook her head. "Pascal told me," she said, "how you used to worry. How you would pace these corridors. And yet you never said anything."

"There were things you needed to do. I understood that."

"And I understand that you need to do this! But I can't just sit here and do nothing!" She turned away again. "I want to find him, Vincent. But if something happens to you . . ."

He heard the tears in her voice. "Catherine, don't do this to yourself." He reached for her, taking her by the shoulders and turning her into his arms.

"I feel so_ helpless_!" Her words were muffled against his chest.

Her frustration was his as well. "Perhaps," he said, "there is something you could do here. Some distraction."

She looked up at him. "Like what, Vincent? I'm a lawyer. I know court cases and bail bondsmen and judges! What use are those things down here?"

"You know other things as well," he said mildly. "You need only search your heart."

"What do you think I've been doing?" She pulled away from him. "Everybody's so kind to me, but I need to feel _useful_. Only I can't concentrate on anything because every time you go out there all I can think about is you! About where you are and whether you're safe and what I would do if you didn't come back to me!"

It pained him to see her so unhappy, and yet he was at a loss as to how to help.

"Would you like me to speak with Father?" he asked. "Perhaps he can offer some suggestion—"

"No." She shook her head. "If I'm ever to be accepted here, _truly_ accepted, I have to find my own way. I know that."

"Catherine, you are as much a member of this community as Iam."

"Oh, Vincent, if only that were true." She reached up to trace the line of his jaw with her fingers. "But I'm still Vincent's Catherine. Not yet just Catherine."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Elliot walked slowly, his head tracking from side to side as he searched the boatyard. He found the _Compass Rose_ at last—an old, battle-scarred fishing boat with peeling paint and rusty moorings.

Vincent was waiting for him.

"So," Elliot said, staring hard at the cloaked figure that stood watching him from below decks. "It begins again."

"It never ended." Vincent leaned against the railing at the bottom of the steps. His hood was back, leaving him uncovered—exposed, and Elliot finally got a good look at his face. He was extraordinary. And he knew now why Cathy had never spoken of him.

"It's like a nightmare," Elliot said. "He's killing me, Vincent. Inch by inch."

"His name is Gabriel." Vincent kept his voice low, and his eyes scanned the docks. He came up a step. "This is important to him," he said. He reached forward and dropped an object into Elliot's hand.

It was a man's ring, heavy and of an intricate design. Elliot turned it in his hand, examining the inlay, the craftsmanship. "It's gold." Closing his fingers around it, he looked up. "It's interesting. Looks old. Where did you get this?"

"From the hand of the hunter he sent to kill me." Vincent said. "But he took it off . . . in the end." There was a distant sound of metal clanging against metal—a mournful sound that made a shiver of premonition arc along Elliot's spine.

"You don't know what you ask of me. If I go on with this, I'm risking—"

"Everything."

Vincent's gaze was too intense. Elliot looked away, his gaze falling on an old net. Torn and rotting, it hung over the edge of the dock as though reaching toward the sea—and oblivion.

"I built a sand castle, once." He stared unseeing at the net. "I couldn't have been more than eight years old. It was a wonderful sand castle. Walls, and turrets . . . It must've been six feet high. Then the tide came in." Somewhere in the darkness, a boat bumped against the pier and Elliot turned back to Vincent. "Gabriel is the tide. He's washing away everything that I've built in my life. He's washing away my dreams."

"Dreams can be dreamt again. Sand castles can be rebuilt." Vincent tilted his head, eyes sharp as he stared at Elliot. "Catherine said you were a fighter."

"Catherine was wrong about many things."

Vincent lowered his gaze. Waves nudged at the pilings, wearing them away bit by bit in a process that would take many years, but that would, in the end, destroy them completely.

"Sometimes in my sleep I see another world," Vincent said softly. "I see her walking in the sunshine, laughing. I watch her grow old, reading to her children, cradling her grandchildren in her arms. A happy life. The life that she was born to live." He paused and took a deep breath, his gaze distant. "It seems so real, and if somehow I could make it so, then—" He stopped, shook his head, and met Elliot's eyes again, waiting.

Elliot sighed. There was something compelling about Vincent. Was it his voice? His face? His connection to Catherine? Elliot didn't know. But he _did_ know that if he dropped this now, he'd never be able to live with himself.

"It's not much to go on," he said at last. "But I'll see what I can find." He turned to go.

"Elliot."

He glanced back. Vincent was still watching him from the shadows.

"Be careful."

Elliot laughed—a quiet, bitter little laugh that echoed eerily off the water. "I think it's a little late for that."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Gabriel was entertaining guests when his butler approached. It was unusual to be interrupted like this during a business dinner, but he would reprimand the man later. He put down his fork and knife and listened to the whispered message. Then he wiped his face with the linen napkin and excused himself, leaving his guests looking after him with puzzled gazes.

They were wheeling the gurney out of the elevator when he approached. The guards looked somber.

"He was found on the helipad," one of them offered.

"Of course," Gabriel murmured, unsurprised. It made perfect sense. He reached out and lifted the white sheet. The pale skin was mottled gray in death, covered in dirt and blood. The white hair was gray now, like the slush kicked up by the plows in January.

"It's Snow," he said quietly, and dropped the sheet back into place. He was surprisingly unmoved by the sight of his brother's corpse. Then a thought occurred to him and he tore the sheet all the way off.

It was gone.

"His ring?"

The guard looked puzzled. "He wasn't wearing any ring."

Gabriel exploded in fury, shoving the gurney back into the elevator with enough force to send it crashing against the wall. "Get this out of my sight!" He stalked off, his mind working at a frantic pace. There were only two rings like it in existence. He could be identified now. He could be found. Had Vincent somehow known that?

"What do you want me to do?" the guard asked nervously.

"Find me the ring!" Gabriel's shout echoed off the walls and ceiling.

"I'll take care of it. Will you be rejoining your guests?"

"No." Business could wait. There were more important things to deal with right now. "Get rid of them. I'll be in the nursery."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Despite her conversation with Pascal, Catherine couldn't relax while Vincent was gone. She tried reading, but she couldn't concentrate. And she didn't feel like socializing. So she stayed near the tunnel entrance and paced.

"You're going to wear a hole in the floor, if you keep that up."

Startled, Catherine spun around. "Julia! You startled me!"

"Aye," Julia's eyes twinkled in the torchlight. "You were a million miles away."

"I was just thinking."

"About Vincent, I'd guess." Julia tilted her head, watching Catherine. "'Tis a bit strange, isn't it?"

"What?"

"If I understand the stories right, there was a time when _he_ would have been the one standing there."

"So I've heard." Apparently everybody but her had known of Vincent's concern.

"Aye. When he knew you were troubled about something, or he thought you might be in danger, he'd come here and he'd pace the floor just as you're doing now." Julia sat down and leaned against the wall. "Now you're the one stuck down here, and he's the one Above. 'Tis an odd state of affairs."

"Yes," Catherine said. "It's terrible not knowing . . ."

"Love gives a person the strength to handle almost anything." Julia gave Catherine a quick, bright smile that made Catherine smile in return. "He's a fine man, your Vincent."

Catherine nodded. "Yes, he is."

"And so much in love he hardly knows the rest of us are here."

Catherine blushed and ducked her head, letting her hair slide forward to hide her face.

Julia laughed. "Aren't you the funny one? If it were me he loved, I'd be shoutin' it from the rooftops."

Catherine sighed. "I do love him. So much. But it's complicated."

"Love always is." Julia stretched her legs out in front of her. "Want to tell me about it?"

Catherine looked at Julia—at her warm bright eyes, and dark hair, and elfin features—and felt, somehow, that she could trust her, that they could be friends.

"I used to dream about coming down here for good," she said at last. "About a time when Vincent and I could be together. Truly together. But . . ."

"But you didn't quite picture it happening like this."

Catherine nodded. "I always thought it would be a choice, a decision Vincent and I would make together when the time came. But he didn't have a choice in this, and I worry that when it's over, when we've found our son—"

"That he'll send you away?"

She nodded slowly. "He's always said that I had a life Above, that there were things I needed to do. Whenever we spoke of it, he always insisted that it wasn't time, yet. Once, he even said that I was his window on the world."

"Was he right?"

"I guess. In a way." Catherine took a breath and let it out on a long sigh. "And maybe it was just easier. I had my career and my friends and my hobbies, but I also had this place, and Vincent."

"Aye. The best of all worlds, it was." Julia drew a pattern in the dirt. "May I ask you a personal question?"

Catherine blinked. For Julia to consider a question personal, it must be very much so. She nodded uneasily.

Julia looked up, caught the nod, and met Catherine's eyes. "Do you _want_ to belong to him, _truly_ belong to him, for the rest of your days?"

"Yes." She didn't even have to think about it. She wanted to share his life. Nothing else mattered.

"Then," Julia said with another one of her quick smiles, "the hard part is done. The rest is just details."

Details that started with Catherine making a place for herself here.

"Julia," Catherine said, a sudden idea filling her with a new sense of purpose, "I don't suppose you could use any help with that storeroom of yours."

Julia looked over at her. "Oh, I don't know," she said. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "There's all those clothes to sort, and the mending to do . . . it's pretty dull work." She looked Catherine up and down. "And I don't suppose you know your way around a sewing needle—"

Catherine grinned, remembering the hours it had taken her to sew the little pouch for Vincent's rose. "I'm a fast learner."

Julia laughed. "All right then. Lord knows, I could certainly use the company." She got up. "It's getting late. I should be going. When Vincent gets back, tell him I said hello."

"You can tell me yourself."

They'd been so involved in their conversation, and Vincent's approach had been so silent, that they hadn't noticed him until his low voice interrupted their conversation. In her rush of relief at his safe return, Catherine forgot all about Julia for an instant and flew into his arms. He caught her easily. Then she remembered their audience, and with a flush of embarrassment she tried to pull back. But his arms tightened around her, keeping her close.

"I suppose I can at that," Julia said. She looked a little wistful as she watched them together. "Hello then, Vincent. And goodnight to you both."

"Goodnight, Julia. Rest well."

Vincent released her, and Catherine turned back to Julia. "Goodnight, Julia. And thanks for the company."

"Ach. The pleasure was all mine," she said, "and I expect I'll be seein' you again, soon." She left them then, her light footsteps echoing down the corridor and away, leaving them in silence.

"Did he come?" Catherine asked when they were alone.

"He came." Vincent took her hand, and they started down the tunnel.

"How is he?"

"He's safe for now."

"Is he going to help?"

"He said he would do what he could."

She stopped suddenly, and he turned, giving her a curious look. "You're worried," she said with dawning awareness. "I can feel it."

He sighed and nodded. "He's taking a great risk, Catherine."

The reminder sobered her. "Do you think he'll be all right?"

"I don't know," he said. "Gabriel is a dangerous enemy."

"Should we tell Elliot the truth?" It was something she'd been thinking about a lot. "If he knew I was alive, would he give up the search?" And yet, _how_ would they tell him? How would he react to having been misled for all this time? And could they trust him to keep their secret?

"I am afraid," Vincent said, interrupting her thoughts, "that it is already too late." He hesitated for a moment, and his steps slowed. "Catherine—"

Something in his voice brought her eyes up to his. "What is it?"

"On the way to the boatyard . . . I passed the cemetery."

"The one where—"

He nodded. "There's a headstone now. I saw it."

She was quiet as the reality of it sank in. A headstone. With her name on it. A superstitious shiver raced through her. "What's it like?"

"It's beautiful," he said, "and sad." He pulled her close, and there was desperation in his touch, in her sense of him as he held her. "And terrifying."

"It's all right," she said, holding him tightly. "I'm here."

"I remembered what it felt like. To lose you. The terrible emptiness." He buried his face in her hair. "I don't think I could survive that again."

She tried to imagine how she would feel if she ever lost him, and her heart froze in her chest. It was a thought too terrible to contemplate.


	16. Chapter 16

The interview room at Manhattan P.D. was a cold place, with barren walls, a scarred wooden table, and a single fluorescent light that cast the same harsh glare over good guys and bad alike. Detective Hughes paced the room, glancing over at Burch's bodyguard every so often with a look Joe could only describe as venomous.

The bodyguard was the only witness who could place Elliot at the scene of the crime. Joe watched the two men argue over the details of that night, and shook his head. Burch killing Moreno—that he might have understood, given what they now knew of Moreno's loyalties. But evisceration seemed out of character, even for Elliot Burch.

"Let's go over it one more time," Greg said. "What happened after you took Burch to the park?"

"He told us to wait at the car while he went on a walk."

"Burch pays you what . . . forty, fifty grand a year as a bodyguard?" Joe asked skeptically. "And you just let him go waltzing off in Central Park alone at 2 a.m.?"

"Mr. Burch pays me sixty-three five a year to do what he tells me," Pierson snapped. "And he told me to wait at the car."

Joe gave up. They were getting nowhere fast. Hughes was still firing questions when Joe left the room.

"How long did you wait?"

"I don't know. Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes."

"That's when you heard the gunshots?"

"Yeah."

Joe entered the observation room, closed the door, and flipped off the audio switch. Diana was there. He'd called her, but she hadn't arrived yet when the interrogation had started. Her hair was tied back, and in her t-shirt and jeans she had a clean, fresh look that made him think more of rock climbing than police work. He had a sudden mental image of her dressed in spandex and clinging to the side of a cliff, and was startled by an unexpected flare of attraction.

"So what do you think?" He'd taken his jacket off for the interview, but now he shrugged it back on, covering his confusion.

"I just got here," she said. "Fill me in on the highlights."

"Pierson puts Burch in the park at the same time Moreno was killed." He tugged the jacket down, straightening it. "Claims he saw blood on his clothing."

"What about a motive?"

"Money. Moreno was costing Burch millions. And that's not all. Pierson claims he was paid a hundred grand to hush up what happened in the park."

"So look at his bank deposits."

"We did. It checks out."

The door opened again and Hughes came in. "I think we gotta go for a search warrant, Joe. Blood stains on Burch's clothes would nail it down."

"Then do it."

Hughes nodded, left, and Joe turned back to Diana.

"Elliot Burch. Can you believe it?"

"No."

He looked at her, surprised. They were so close to solving this thing with Moreno and she was slamming on the brakes? "Come with me." He led her to his office, pushed the door closed behind her, and walked around his desk to his chair. "Talk."

"The case is bogus, Joe." Diana dropped her bag on the couch. "Somebody set the whole thing up."

"Well then somebody did a damn good job." Joe folded his arms on the desktop. "Look, do you think I have a choice here? I've got motive. I've got opportunity. And I've got a witness."

"Look me in the eye and tell me you honestly believe Elliot Burch ripped these two guys to pieces," Diana said. She leaned forward, resting her weight on her palms. "Come on, Joe. Don't let them use you. You're better than that. Go with your instincts."

He sat back, unnerved by her proximity. "I don't like this any better than you do. But when I moved into this office, I took an oath."

She backed away a step and folded her arms. "Can you come over to my loft later on tonight?"

"Why?"

"Because I think there's some things you need to see."

**xXx**

**xXx**

The memorial service for Steven and Sam took place by the mirror pool. The still waters reflected the blue sky and pale, wraithlike clouds of early summer. The entire community had gathered to say their goodbyes, but Vincent and Catherine stood well back from the others, giving them priority.

Catherine was worried about Vincent. She knew he blamed himself for both deaths, and that the grief he felt was magnified by his deepening hatred of Gabriel. It was starting to frighten her, this darkness she sensed growing in his heart, but there was little she could do to help.

Father's low voice echoed through the cavern, drawing her attention back to the moment and to the overwhelming sadness of shared loss.

"As we remember Steven and Sam, we must remember more than our grief," Father said. "We must always remember their faces. The sound of their laughter. The joy they shared with us."

Catherine reached for Vincent's hand, wrapping her fingers around his and giving what little comfort she could. She wanted to offer more, wanted to lean her body more fully against him, but something about the stiff set of his shoulders told her that such an advance wouldn't be welcomed. The time had not yet come when he could share his grief, even with her.

"Sam lived a very full life," Father said, "but Steven was scarcely more than a child."

Brooke began to sob quietly, and Mary put her arms around the girl's shaking shoulders, drawing her close. But at Catherine's side, Vincent stood absolutely still, his shadowed eyes the only evidence of his feelings.

"They both died too soon, their lives cut short by a brutal intruder."

Vincent's fingers tightened almost painfully around Catherine's, and she looked over at him, but he was staring into the mirror pool, seemingly unaware of her presence.

"They were armed only with their courage. But they died as bravely as any soldier."

A young man, standing on the cusp of adulthood, and an old one, the panoply of life drifting behind him like the wake of a great ship—that men such as these should have met such brutal ends seemed profoundly unjust.

"We will always remember how much we love them," Father said. "And let us never forget how much they loved us."

As though by some silent signal, two people Catherine didn't know stepped forward, emerging from the group with simple clay urns cradled in their arms. Without speaking, they removed the tops of the urns and stepped to the water's edge. The air was cool, but there was no breeze to scatter the ashes that fell from the urns in twin streams, blackening the surface of the pool and blotting out the summer sky as Father concluded the service.

"Let these waters carry them to every part of our tunnels, and into every corner of our world. Steven . . ." Father's gaze settled first on one urn, and then on the other, and his voice trembled as he spoke a final, quiet benediction, "and Sam . . . will always be part of us."

Father dropped his head, his body seeming almost to shrink in upon itself with silent grief as the mourners filed out of the chamber, their shuffling footsteps a melancholy counterpoint to Brooke's sobs. But Vincent made no move to go, and Catherine waited, her eyes on the spreading stain of ash in the pool. She would stay with him until he was ready to leave.

"Brooke," Father said, touching her arm, "it's time to go."

"No!" She choked out the word, her voice thick with tears. "I won't leave him."

She stepped to the pool's edge, her eyes hardening with sudden purpose, but Father caught her arm and pulled her into a tight hug.

"They're gone, child."

For an instant, Brooke struggled against Father's hold, but then she buried her face in his shoulder and flung her arms around him in a desperate hug. Beside Catherine, Vincent watched without comment, his tightly controlled emotions and stiff posture giving no hint to his thoughts. Father looked up, and he and Vincent exchanged a single, pain-filled glance. Then Vincent turned, and without looking at Catherine, led her from the chamber.

They walked without speaking, but he didn't release her hand, and she knew he waged a fierce inner battle with the anger and grief that threatened to unleash that other part of him. The part that frightened him. The part that was more animal than man.

Her chamber was closest, and by tacit agreement, they went there. When they arrived, Catherine lit a candle by the bed and turned back to look at him.

"Talk to me, Vincent."

There was no response. He stood, still and silent, just inside the entry.

"Vincent—"

"My fault, Catherine." The words chilled the air and hovered accusingly in the shadows. "They died because of me." He dropped his gaze, his hands fisted so tightly that Catherine half expected to see blood dripping to the floor.

"No." She cupped his chin with her hand and forced him to look at her. "They died because Gabriel sent a murderer into the tunnels." Somehow she had to make him understand that the only people to blame for this tragedy were the man who'd pulled the trigger and the man who'd sent him.

"You can surround yourself— _lose_ yourself—in if-onlies and what-ifs. But it won't change anything. Two dear friends have been taken from us forever, and that's sad, and tragic. But you can't blame yourself for it. If you do, it'll only destroy you, too."

He was silent for a long time, but he didn't move away from her. When he finally spoke, his voice was halting, and she had to lean close to hear him.

"I'm afraid," he said. "This . . . anger that grows inside of me. I fear it will consume me."

"I won't let that happen, Vincent. I'm here with you. Let me share my strength." She put her arms around his waist, held him tight, and reached out to him with her mind. It felt a little presumptuous, this conscious manipulation of a precious gift that was as magical as it was mysterious, but it was the only thing she could think to try, the only comfort she had left to offer.

For a moment, he didn't react. Then he shuddered, took in a great, trembling gulp of air, and dropped his head, holding her with near desperate strength as he gave in to the searing agony.

She'd seen him cry before, but never like this, never these horrible wracking sobs that overcame him now, and she pulled him closer, held him tighter, and wished with all her heart that she could take away his pain.

When at last he grew calm, she led him to the bed and pulled him down beside her. He was still weak from his encounter at the carousel and his subsequent battle with Gabriel's hired assassin, and the tidal wave of grief had taken his last remaining reserves. Which was probably why he didn't object when she urged him to lie down, didn't prevent her from removing his boots, or from lying down beside him, or from pulling up a blanket to cover them both. He just held her close, sighed, and closed his eyes.

He was asleep almost before the pillow settled beneath his head.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Elliot paced the floor of his office. He'd long since taken off his jacket and loosened his tie. Now he had his hands on his hips as he spun back to face George Walker. He couldn't believe it had come to this, to utter and complete financial ruin.

"Tap into the Cayman Islands cash reserve," he said, trying to keep his desperation out of his voice.

Walker shook his head. "We used that cash to shore up the Battery project."

"Well then sell the damn site!"

"You can't sell it, Elliot. It's already been attached. Haven't you been listening to a thing I've said?"

Elliot fought down a wave of panic as he met Walker's gaze.

"It's over," George said quietly.

"What's that supposed to _mean_?"

"It means I'm going to recommend that we file for Chapter Eleven. Immediately."

Elliot stared at him, stunned and heartbroken. All his dreams, gone—turned to dust by an enemy he'd never even seen.

George looked away as he stood up. "Maybe I'll still be able to salvage something."

"He's done this." Elliot's voice was choked. He swallowed . "Gabriel—" He took a long breath, calming himself. "Okay. What we have to do is find him."

"_Find_ him. We can't even prove that he exists!" George shook his head. "Elliot . . . you don't need an attorney. You need a shrink." Without another word, he picked up his briefcase and left the room.

Elliot sat down heavily. His dreams were gone. Cathy was gone. In a matter of weeks, he could find himself right back where he'd started all those years ago. He fought back tears as he slid open the top drawer of his desk and stared at his gun. Dropping his head back against the chair, he tried to decide, to choose. Slowly, he reached into the drawer. But instead of picking up the gun, he reached behind it to lift out the ring Vincent had given him.

When he looked up, Diana was watching him from the open doorway. She came in, closing the door behind her, and he dropped the ring on his desk as he stood up. This was exactly what he didn't need right now.

"What can I do for you?"

She folded her arms as she came to a stop in front of him. "You can start by telling me exactly what happened that night at the carousel."

"I don't know what you're talking about." No way was he going to turn Vincent over to the police. He could at least do that much for Cathy.

"I think you do. I think you saw everything that happened that night." Her eyes locked on his as she continued. "And I think you know who Vincent is."

He heard the exhaustion in his own voice when he answered her. "I'm afraid I can't help you. I'm sorry."

"You're a lousy liar, Mr. Burch."

He laughed bitterly. "You know, there are people who would say that I was a very good liar."

"Maybe at one time, but you're out of practice."

She had an honest look about her, and he almost felt like he could trust her, but he'd never been a man to give his trust easily—with one glaring exception. And she was gone forever.

"Why don't you talk to me?" she said. "Why don't you tell me what you're thinking and what you know? It's the only way you're going to save yourself."

Elliot turned back to his desk and picked up the ring. He rubbed it between his fingers. If he talked, there was still a chance he could save some small piece of his empire. Slipping the ring into his pocket, he leaned his hip against the desk and looked her straight in the eye as he hammered the final nail into his own coffin.

"I think it's time for you to go."

**xXx**

**xXx**

When Vincent awoke, the rest of the community was asleep, and their solitude, in this peaceful haven far beneath the city, was complete. Beside him, Catherine slept on, her head pillowed on his arm and her body curled into his. His senses were filled with her soft weight and the light, clean scent of her hair and skin, and he wished he could preserve this moment—freeze it forever in translucent golden amber and store it in the leather pouch he carried next to his heart.

He knew that he should return to his own chamber, but he couldn't bring himself to leave her. The contentment he felt in her presence weighted his body and stole his will to move. And he was weary of the constant struggle against his desires, tired of denying himself the simple pleasures that other men took for granted. He and Catherine had loved before. They had a son. Did this not count for something? Must her faith in him, in the two of them together, be denied forever?

She made a small sound and rolled over, nestling close, seeking his warmth even in her sleep. The blanket tangled at her hips, and he reached for it, pulling it over her shoulders before putting his arm around her waist—holding her close, but not so close that he couldn't study her while she slept.

There was something ethereal about her, her face relaxed in sleep and lit only by the soft glow of a handful of candles. Entranced, he lowered his head to brush a kiss against her temple, a bare whisper of contact, meant to soothe rather than wake her. And yet, when he pulled back he found her watching him.

She touched his chest, her eyes soft with sleep as they sought his. "How are you feeling?"

"Better." He slid his hand up her back to the gentle dip between her shoulders and remembered a story he'd read as a child—a fanciful tale about how shoulder blades were the earthly remnants of angel wings. "Thank you."

Unbidden, a fragment of conversation came back to him, something he'd said to Father when Lena had first come to the tunnels. He'd wondered what it might be like to be someone else's possibility. At the time, he'd considered it a fantasy, an impossible wish granted only to normal men. But he'd been wrong. He was _Catherine's_ possibility, and she was his. It was a breathtaking revelation—as if a small stone whose form he'd admired and which he'd carried in his pocket like a talisman had suddenly revealed itself to be a flawless diamond.

He wanted to tell her what he was feeling, but he didn't have the words. And he wanted to show her how much he loved her. But he still feared that other part of himself, the dark and violent part that might yet slip free of his control and hurt the one person in the world whom he loved above all others.

And so he lay there, frozen with indecision, until she took his hand in hers, brought it to her lips, and kissed his fingers—the way she had all those months ago when he'd first told her about Lisa. Then, without taking her eyes off of his, she pressed his palm against her chest so that the steady beat of her heart pulsed against his skin. She didn't say anything, but she didn't need to. He saw the message in her eyes. Felt it in their bond.

_Yours_.

He drew in an uneven breath as his body came to life, nerves and muscles quivering beneath clothing that felt suddenly too tight, too restrictive. She must've known what he was feeling, must've sensed the need that rose in him like a tide, but she remained perfectly still. Through sheer force of will, she was controlling her emotions, and yet he could sense them when he tried, could feel her rising desire locked behind a carefully constructed barrier. Even now, in this deep and intimate silence, she was trying to give him what she thought he needed. It was a struggle they shared, this fierce battle against the primal force that simultaneously drew them together and threatened to destroy them.

Awed by her courage, he slid his hand up to trace her collarbone, the curve of her shoulder, the graceful arch of her neck. She didn't flinch, not even when his nails grazed her throat and hovered over the delicate throb of her pulse.

"You are . . . so beautiful," he murmured, his breath stirring the hair at her temple.

She laced her fingers through his and tucked their joined hands beneath her chin, and when she looked at him, her eyes were bright. "I love you."

He gazed at her mouth as she spoke, at the subtle shadings of color—from deepest pink to palest peach—that formed the boundaries of her lips. Fascinated, he untangled his hand from hers and traced a path along that line, staring at the contrast of her skin against his. How could it be that something so fragile, so captivatingly beautiful, could withstand the brutal hazards of his clawed hands?

She lay still beneath his touch, but he felt her eyes on him, sensed her pleasure in her deeply indrawn breath, and in the way her mouth gave easily beneath the light pressure of his touch. Her tongue flicked once, and then again, at the sensitive tip of his finger—a silent invitation, one that was at once unconscious and utterly provocative.

Unable, and unwilling, to deny her slightest wish, he slid his fingers into her hair and bent to kiss her. He meant it to be brief, a tender testament to her beauty, but he had trouble ending it, and when he finally dragged himself away, she whispered a protest and reached up to tangle her fingers in his hair. The thick mass spilled forward onto her face, and he started to move back, but she stopped him, pulling him closer instead, until his mouth settled on hers once more and she hummed with pleasure, and he knew he would do anything, anything at all, if only she would make that sound again.

Her lips parted beneath his, beckoning him closer, and he leaned in, careful to keep the bulk of his weight off her slight frame. There were so many textures to explore—the smooth surfaces of her teeth, the soft inner lining of her lips, and the slow, erotic slide of her tongue against his—that he knew he would never tire of kissing her. But when she probed the edges of his lips with her tongue, he hesitated, fearing her reaction to his strangeness—only her hands were still buried in his hair, and she held him still, and in a moment he forgot his uneasiness as new sensations assailed him and he knew that here, too, she accepted him completely.

The realization touched off explosive desire, and a low growl rumbled through his chest as he bracketed her head with his arms and took control of the kiss, tangling his tongue with hers. She was his. _Always_. The soft curves, the sweet lips, the silken hair . . . his. He rained kisses across her face, along her jaw, down the arch of her neck and into the hollow of her throat. He paused there, nuzzling. Tasting. Drinking in her scent. And she clutched at his shoulders and pulled him closer, her body rising against his in a silent, ageless demand.

In another instant he was poised above her, her arms pinned above her head, her hair scattered across the pillow in wild disarray. She looked up at him with eyes that begged for more even as his hips pressed hers deep into the mattress.

And all at once he realized how close he was to losing control.

He rolled away, his heart pounding, his chest tight as he struggled to bring in enough of the chilled tunnel air to cool the need that threatened to overwhelm him. But when he looked at Catherine his eyes were drawn to the moist fullness of her lips and he wondered where he'd ever gotten the idea that he could protect her from this.

"Vincent?" The passion-clouded tones almost made him reach out for her again. "What is it?"

"Catherine . . ." He didn't dare meet her eyes, certain that if he did he would be lost. The words he needed to say stuck in his throat. He swallowed and forced them past reluctant lips. "The way may yet be dangerous. Are you certain?"

She cupped his chin in her hand and waited until he looked at her. "I've never been more certain of anything in all my life," she said, and there was a huskiness to her voice that stirred something deep inside him. "All that I am, all that I have, is yours."

A distant voice echoed through his mind, demanding that he accept what she was offering. Devour it. Make it part of him—and in so doing, claim her as his forever. And yet he must not frighten her, must not to allow the Other to seize control. Did he have the strength to love her safely? Did he have the courage to try? And if he turned away from her now, what would happen to them?

Still she held back, protecting him from the intensity of her emotions, so that though he could see her desire in her eyes and feel it in the way her hand trembled against his skin, the bond was almost silent. The decision was his—to retreat to the safety of distance, or to risk everything on their dream.

His pulse was calmer now, though the heat of passion still warmed his blood, and he looked into her eyes and knew, somehow, that it would be all right. He couldn't have said why he was suddenly so certain, he only knew that he had to trust her faith in him, had to believe in possibilities, if only because to do otherwise would ultimately destroy them both.

Slowly, without dropping his gaze from hers, he lowered his hand to the curve of her ribs, tracing each one through her sweater. The fabric was soft, with little nubs of yarn that tickled his palm, but the bones beneath were firm. As he explored, he kept his eyes on hers, searching for any sign of doubt in her response, but he encountered only her rising excitement. It was there in the sudden hitch in her breathing, the growing intensity in her eyes, the tightening of her fingers against his shoulders. And when at last his thumb brushed against her breast, she gasped, her body arching toward his.

He marveled at the warmth of her response even as he regretted his inexperience. There was so much he didn't know, so much he had to learn about how to give a woman pleasure. How to give _Catherine_ pleasure. And yet he knew she enjoyed what he was doing, that rather than repulsing her, his intimate touch seemed only to heighten her desire.

When he hesitated, uncertain how to proceed, she reached for his hand, folding it so that he cupped her breast in his palm, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe. She felt magical, like nothing else he'd ever touched, and she must have sensed his stunned amazement, because when he looked up, she was smiling gently at him.

She tugged at the edge of his tunic, and he sat up long enough to free himself of sweater, tunic, and vest—items designed not only to protect him, but to spare the community the strangeness of his form. Setting the clothing aside, he turned back to her, alert for any hint of unease. But there was none. Instead he sensed only pleasure as she put her hands on his shoulders and slid them down his chest. The light touch of her fingers against his skin, with no fabric barrier to muffle their effect, made him gasp, and her eyes flew to his as she drew back.

"Too much?" she asked.

"No." His voice was hoarse. Ragged. "Please . . ."

She touched his shoulder, and he lay back against the pillows, putting his arm around her as she leaned over him and traced delicate patterns against his skin.

"I always wondered," she said, "what you looked like." She smiled a little, though he couldn't tell if she was amused by him or by her thoughts. "I used to think it must be pretty awful for you to be so careful all the time." Her hand came to rest against his stomach and she looked up. "But you're beautiful."

Her gaze was clear and direct, and he knew she truly meant what she was saying, and somehow, hearing it from her, he could almost believe it himself.

"Thank you," he whispered.

She lifted her head to give him a puzzled look. "For what?"

"For believing in me."

He cupped the back of her head with his hand and pulled her close, and she settled easily against him, laying her head on his chest and wrapping her arm around his waist. He stroked her hair while her breath whispered through the thick fur on his chest, and for a while, it was enough. But soon a restlessness grew inside him. He was no longer satisfied just to have her close. He wanted to feel her skin against his, and slowly, he eased his hand under the hem of her sweater.

The small sound she made startled him, and he drew back, afraid that he had offended her in some way. But she merely lifted her head and brushed a series of nuzzling kisses across his chest.

"Please." She stroked her hand down his side and across his stomach, lingering just above the button closure of his pants. "Don't stop."

Her touch sent a shiver of awareness along his spine, encouraging him to try again, and this time when she caught her breath he understood that she was only giving voice to her pleasure. _Their_ pleasure.

"It feels—"

"—like a miracle." He finished for her.

She nodded against him. "Exactly like a miracle."

He brought his other hand up beside the first, so that he held her close, his palms flat against her back, fingers splayed across her skin and running up against the delicate edges of her spine. Catherine lifted her head to press tiny, nibbling kisses across the hollow of his throat, the juncture of his shoulder, and along the line of his jaw, and he held her against him, his hands pressing against the tender skin of her back while he sank into the exquisite pleasure of her touch and wondered where he would ever again find the strength to be apart from her.

She stretched up, reaching for his kiss, and he shifted her to a more comfortable position against his chest and slid his hands into her hair. He whispered her name against her lips, the syllables like warm honey on his tongue—sweet, rich, dark, and utterly bewitching as he took her mouth with his. His thumbs brushed against the petal-soft skin of her cheeks while the kiss went on and on until the intensity of it all nearly overwhelmed them and they separated, breathing hard. And even then he held her body tight against his, his eyes locked on hers.

He saw her love for him in the luminous depths, as well as her desire, and his body responded, calling out for completion. He pulled her back down, her weight barely noticeable, his lips meeting hers once more as he slid his hands under the edge of her sweater and massaged the delicate skin of her lower back. But even this was no longer enough. He wanted more, so much more, and he moved his hands up and around, stroking her through the thin cotton bra, pressing his fingers into the soft outer contours of her breasts.

"Vincent." She choked out his name, pulling away from his kiss, her back arching, hips pressing urgently against him so that he could barely restrain the growl that rose in his throat. There was something desperate in the way she looked at him—the way her fingers tangled in his hair, and the way her chest rose and fell with the frantic beating of her heart. "I need you."

"I know," he said, and he almost didn't recognize his own voice, so thick was it with desire. He must have her, must make her his. There was no other path for them now.

He cradled her face in his hands. "We will go together," he said, "with courage—"

"—and with care," she finished. Her eyes held his in the dancing shadows.

He nodded and pulled her in for another kiss, a final tender reminder of his love before the maelstrom he feared was coming. "Whatever happens," he said, "know that I love you."

He was still worried, but Catherine only smiled and relaxed her fierce grip on her emotions, and for a moment, it was all he could do just to breathe. And then there was no stopping, no turning back, no hesitation. There was only the urgent driving demand of their love.

Reaching for the hem of her sweater, he pulled it up and over her head, leaving only the simple cotton bra protecting her from his gaze. She reached behind her back, and an instant later that too fell away. She pulled it off and shoved it aside, and then she was kissing him again, her breasts pressed against his chest, her skin like warm silk beneath his hands.

He wrapped his arms around her and rolled, bringing her under his body and supporting himself above her as the kiss went on and on and their hands danced across each other's skin in a desperate quest for ever greater intimacy. Power surged through him. And desire. And passion so strong, so overwhelming, that he growled low in his throat. It was a predatory sound, a mating call, and she responded to it with a soft moan of her own as she pulled at his shoulders and pushed her hips against his.

They couldn't get close enough, and he felt rather than heard her murmur of impatience as she tugged at his clothes. He slipped away, and it seemed as though it took forever to free himself, but then he was back to help her with her skirt, and finally there were no more barriers between them, and he was dimly aware that he should stop, should wait, should give her one last chance to change her mind, only he couldn't stop, not now. It was far too late.

The quiet sound she made at the back of her throat called to him, and his nostrils flared with the heady scent of their shared passion, and she moved, opening to him, her hands pulling at his back and her eyes begging him for something he couldn't name. And then instinct took over and he knew only that he had to have her, had to feel what it was to be part of her. His body acted seemingly of its own accord, and he flung his head back and fought a sudden desperate need to roar his triumph when finally, blissfully, their bodies melded into a union so perfect, so incredible, that he froze, staring down at her in awed disbelief.

Her smile was bright, her gaze both tender and heated, as she lifted her hips and pulled him closer, her fingertips like individual points of fire against his sensitized skin, her body warm and soft and welcoming beneath his.

"Don't stop." Her voice was little more than a whisper, a desperate plea. "Please."

The words drifted past him to fade into the shadows, and he answered their call, moving, shifting, responding to the rising demand of a need too long denied.

And then, without warning, the Other was there.

Wild-eyed, with slavering fangs and lewd grin, the Other advanced on Catherine, cruel intent in its menacing gaze. No. This would not happen. _Could_ not happen. Vincent snarled, a dangerous rumble that was both possessive and challenging, but the creature only leered and licked its lips as it stretched hooked claws toward the fragile rise of Catherine's breast, intent upon domination, upon possession.

"Vincent." Catherine's voice, low and urgent, reached out to him through the thick haze of confusion and anger. "You have to t_rust_ me._Believe_ in me. In _us_." She touched his face, bringing his gaze back to hers, holding him there as her faith rose toward him, radiant and true. Thwarted, the Other reared back in blind pain. It thrived on darkness and shadows, its soul nourished by nightmares. With no recourse against the shimmering tapestry of emotion that bound Vincent and Catherine so tightly together, it vanished, leaving behind only the faint echo of its frustrated howl.

After that, Vincent lost all sense of time and place, but it didn't matter because she held him in her arms, surrounding him with her love, her trust, as months of desire and self-denial coalesced in a fierce, driving rush to fulfillment. She gave him everything, answered his every demand with her own passion, her own hunger. And then, almost too late, he sensed the approach of a vast cataclysm.

For an instant, a single heartbeat, he hesitated. But she caught him, her small hands fierce at his waist, refusing to let him go, bringing him with her as they fell into a shattering release that washed away all his doubts, all his insecurities, so that it seemed to Vincent almost as though their separate souls merged into a single luminous being, complete and whole in ways neither had ever been before.

It was a long time before he became aware of himself again and found that he'd twisted away from her as he'd collapsed, so that now he lay beside her. He gathered her into his arms, tucking her in close against his warmth, and pulled a blanket up to protect her from the cool tunnel air that was already drying the sweat on their skin and raising tiny goosebumps along her arms. She was drowsy, her body utterly relaxed in his arms, and he sensed in their bond a deep, abiding peace.

She said something, but she was already half-asleep, and the words blurred together in a quiet ripple of sound that made him smile against her hair.

"Rest now," he whispered, and his heart soared with the knowledge that she had been right. Their future, no longer constrained by his fears, seemed suddenly filled with possibilities. "And know, always, that I love you."


	17. Chapter 17

Elliot listened in stunned disbelief as the detective read him his rights. They were arresting him for murder. Him. Elliot Burch. He'd killed before, certainly, but only in self-defense, and certainly not that night at the carousel. And yet how could he tell them that? And who would believe him if he tried to explain what had really happened? He shook his head, trying to clear it enough to understand the detective's words.

"You're under arrest for the murders of John Moreno and Arvin Cates. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights that I'm reading to you?" The detective—Hughes somebody had called him—looked up, waiting for a response. Elliot could only nod.

Little of what happened next penetrated the haze of shock. There were handcuffs, the cold steel pinching his wrists, and a grimy back seat next to a door with no handle. Then ink on his hands, accusatory black stains that refused to come off no matter how hard he rubbed. Somebody took his picture—a bright flash in a dingy room with peeling white paint on the walls and numbered lines behind his head. And then more walls. Brick this time. And thick iron bars. And hovering over all of it the stink of old urine and stale vomit and unwashed bodies.

His lawyer found him there, with his legs pulled up on a narrow wooden bench and his back against the battle-scarred bricks. Richards talked for a long time, but Elliot said little. It wasn't until Richards raised his voice that Elliot even looked up.

"What the hell are you afraid of?" Richards shouted. "Everything you tell me is protected by attorney-client privilege. You _know_ that!"

"I've told you everything I can." In contrast to Richards' strident tones, Elliot's voice was quiet, but his frustration was no less evident for being softly spoken. "Damn it, Richards. You've known me ten years. You can't seriously believe that—"

"What _I_ believe, isn't important. It's what I can make a _jury_ believe. If I'm going to defend you, I need to know what happened!" Richards stared at Elliot for a long, tense moment. "Whatever you say, Elliot . . . it doesn't have to leave this room."

Elliot had to resist a nearly hysterical snort of amusement when he imagined how his impeccably addressed and elegant attorney would react to the truth.

"Who are you protecting?" Richards paced the cell as he glared over at Elliot. "Tell me."

Elliot looked away. "You wouldn't believe me."

With an exasperated sigh, Richards finally gave up. "I'll try and arrange bail. You should be out of here by tomorrow at the latest. In the meantime, you'll have to do some hard thinking." He rapped sharply on the bars to get the guard's attention. "You're not gonna like it in Attica, I warn you. The food is lousy."

A moment later, Elliot was alone with his thoughts and his memories.

And his shattered dreams.

**xXx**

**xXx**

It didn't surprise Vincent when he woke up before Catherine again. He usually needed very little sleep, a fact he would always be grateful for if it led to moments like this one. As before, she lay curled in his arms, her back against his chest and her legs tangled with his. Only this time nothing separated him from the silken expanse of her skin, and sometime in the night his hand had found its way under her breast so that now he cupped the soft weight of it in his palm.

He focused on that single point of contact, picturing it in his mind—her smooth pale skin against his darker, rougher palm, his claws so close to her heart. She was completely open to him, completely vulnerable, and if he, even for a moment, lost control of himself…

But he wouldn't. Not with her. _Never_ with her. And he knew that now, knew that their bond, their connection, would forever hold them safe from harm. Her strength and courage had guided them, held them, protected them on a journey he'd once thought impossible. But now he felt that the future, _their_ future, was bright with possibility.

Whatever she needed, whatever she desired, he would give to her. Do for her.

But first he had to keep her safe. And he had to find their son. He closed his eyes and searched for a sense of him in his mind. It took a few moments, but eventually he found what he was seeking. It came to him like the faint echo of a distant drumbeat, regular and comforting. Satisfied, he opened his eyes again, deep in thought.

Gabriel would almost certainly send another hunter to the tunnels. He would know that Vincent was still alive, still searching for his infant son, and he would seek to eliminate that threat. Vincent knew this because he knew what he would do—had done—to protect the people he loved.

The search for their son would bring danger to the tunnel community again, and he couldn't allow that, couldn't allow their quest to threaten the lives of innocent people.

He realized then that he had to leave, at least for a while. He had to draw Gabriel's attention away from this place of safety, because if Catherine was discovered here, Gabriel would not stop until she was dead. Vincent closed his eyes against a vivid memory of Catherine collapsing in his arms, the light fading from her eyes. It was a memory of agony so deep, so excruciating, that his body reacted without his command, pulling her into an instinctive, protective embrace.

"Vincent?" Her soft voice carried with it a hint of dreams undreamt. "What is it?"

He took in a breath, bent, and kissed the top of her head. "It's nothing, Catherine. Rest."

She turned in his arms, soft and warm and womanly, and he felt every point of contact between them—her hips and waist and back against his arms, her legs against his, and her breasts against his chest. His body stirred in response, and though he knew she was aware of it, she only settled more closely against him.

She was watching him, still drowsy, but with concern in her eyes. "You're worried about something."

But the words he needed to say would only upset her. She would wish to come with him. And no matter how desperately he wanted her close, he knew he couldn't allow it. His only hope, his only strength, lay in the knowledge that whatever happened, she would be safe.

He smoothed his hand up her spine, its ridge firm against his palm. He was fully aroused now, his body pulsing with need. "Perhaps," he said quietly, "we could discuss it later?"

With a smile, she settled her hand against his chest and stretched, her body tensing against his, the muscles shifting along her back. He felt her strength, acknowledged it, as she pressed against him and pulled his head down for her kiss.

"I love you," she said.

He felt blessed. Complete. As though, for the first time in his life, he truly knew who he was and where he belonged.

"And I love you." His voice was low, barely more than a whisper of sound as he slid his hand down her back to the alluring curve of her hip.

He would tell her of his decision, but not yet. Not now. Right now, her hands were in his hair and her body was pressed against his, and as kissed her, the only thing he was thinking about was how to give her pleasure.

**xXx**

**xXx**

In the deeply shadowed nursery, Gabriel watched Julian kick at his blankets. The boy's limbs were long and well formed, with strength already developing in the infant muscles. The face was Catherine's, clear-skinned and beautiful, but the eyes had Vincent's bright blue intensity. No doubt Julian had inherited other traits from his sire as well, traits that would reveal themselves in the fullness of time. Genetics had endowed the child with great strength and beauty. But Gabriel would be the one to give him power.

"He's a beautiful boy." Jonathan Pope stood nearby, an ever-present shadow.

Gabriel nodded. "He's strong."

In the crib, the baby whimpered and waved his arms. He wanted attention, human contact. But Gabriel did nothing. The child must learn to look to himself for comfort.

"When are you going to name him?" Pope asked.

"He has a name." God gave Adam the power to name all the creatures of the Earth. And in naming them, Adam had dominated them.

"Oh?"

"Snow always learned their names." Gabriel gazed into the distance, seeing, not his gracious estate, but the slums of his youth. "Then he killed them." Pulling his gaze away from the window, Gabriel turned to Jonathan. "When you know a man's true name, you own him." He took a long slow breath and let it out, setting the memories aside. "And how is Mr. Burch?"

Gabriel knew about the arrest, of course. Elliot Burch's downfall was the cornerstone of a plan that would free Gabriel from two annoyances at once—his son's biological father, and the one man who might have the power to discover the truth about Catherine Chandler's unfortunate demise.

"Elliot Burch is having a rather bad day, I'm afraid." Jonathan sounded distinctly satisfied.

Gabriel turned his gaze back to his son. It was time to have a chat with Elliot Burch. "Employ the jailhouse guard."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent found Father in his chambers. He was reading, but when Vincent came in he removed his glasses and set the book aside.

"Ah, Vincent. Come in."

"Father," Vincent came slowly down the steps, shoulders bowed under the weight of the burden he carried, a burden he now had to carry alone. "I must speak with you."

Father eyed him sharply. "Is everything all right? Catherine—?"

"Is well." Vincent sat down and reached for a chess piece. He turned it end over end while he tried to bring order to his thoughts. He still hadn't spoken with Catherine about his decision to leave the community, unwilling to spoil their time together with news that he knew would upset her.

"Talk to me, Vincent. Tell me what is troubling you."

Instead of answering, Vincent asked a question of his own. "How is Brooke?"

"Grieving. Mary is with her. But she's young, and strong. She will recover from this tragedy."

Vincent set the chess piece among its mates and reached for a candle. He stared at its flame as he spoke. "The hunter came for me," he said. "And because he did, two of my friends are dead."

"You risked your life to protect us." Father laid his hand on Vincent's arm. "You've always kept our world safe from harm."

Vincent shook his head slowly. "I must not allow myself to endanger our world now." He looked up, meeting Father's troubled gaze across the candle. "What happened . . . will never happen again." He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment against the words he knew he must say. "I must go, Father."

"Go? Where?"

"Away. Somewhere—" He pushed the candle away, watching as its flame flickered and danced. "—separate. And apart."

"What about Catherine?"

"She will stay here. With you. Where she will be safe."

Father's eyes widened in surprise. "She's agreed to this?"

Vincent looked away. "She doesn't yet know of my decision."

"When will you tell her?"

"Soon."

Father shook his head. "You can't possibly think she'll agree—"

"She must, Father. It is the only way. I must find our son, but I refuse to endanger the community, or Catherine, any further."

"Don't do this, Vincent." Father was pleading with him now, his voice laden with worry and fear.

Vincent stood up. "This is the only home I've ever known," he said, offering his arm to Father and helping him to his feet, his heart aching with the knowledge of the pain he was causing. "But I _must_ leave it in order to keep it safe. Please. Don't make this parting any harder—"

With tears in his eyes, Father hugged him. "I've tried to make a world free from fear and violence. A world where we could live in safety. In peace."

Vincent kissed the worn cheek. "We can't always choose the roads we walk."

Father took Vincent's face between his palms. "Be careful, Vincent. The road you walk could cost you more than your life." He dropped his hands to Vincent's shoulders. "It could cost you yourself."

Vincent nodded. "I know the dangers, Father. That is why I must walk this road alone." Turning, Vincent left the chamber without looking back.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Diana unlocked the lift gate and stalked back across her loft without waiting for Joe to follow. When she reached the couch, she spun on her heel to glare at him. "I saw the press conference on the evening news."

"That wasn't my idea." Joe dropped his jacket on a chair and followed her into the kitchen. He'd expected her to be mad, but he could tell she was beyond that and well on her way to furious. "You don't bust a guy like Elliot Burch and figure no one's gonna notice."

"Relax, Joe. I know how the game is played. You don't have to explain it to me." She opened the fridge, shoved a carton of milk inside, and slammed the door again. "Come here."

As he followed her to her desk, he tried to guess why she'd called him here. Somehow he knew it wasn't good news. He'd begun to wonder lately if they were even working the same case. Every time his people followed up a lead, she shot it down. It was frustrating as hell. "What's up?"

"Whoever killed Cathy Chandler is not the same person who brought her home."

Bingo. Right on queue, she'd thrown another wrench into the works. Joe sighed. "What makes you think that?"

"Vincent brought her home, Joe. He brought her home because he loved her."

"Oh, come on." The mysterious Vincent again. Joe was starting to hate the very sound of the name.

Diana picked up the crime scene photos and fanned them out on her desk. "Look at these pictures." She jabbed her finger at each one as she talked. "Moreno and Cates were ripped to pieces. Claw marks on the bones, torn flesh, heavy bruising, heavy bleeding."

"Yeah, I read the autopsies." Joe turned his eyes away. So much for his dinner plans.

"Coroner says it was more like an animal attack than a murder." Diana tapped the pictures back into a neat pile and put them in a folder. "I ran a computer check just to see if there were any other instances of the same M.O. in the last three years."

She was off on a tangent. A wild goose chase. "I remember those cases," he said, "but what do they have to do with ours?"

"The earliest was _eight_ months after Cathy Chandler came to work for you."

Diana was watching him for his reaction, and Joe schooled his face into a mask of polite interest. He refused to believe that Cathy could have had anything to do with the gruesome deaths.

"And a third of them tie into cases that _she_ was involved with."

Joe shook his head. "All circumstantial. You can't prove a damn thing." None of those cases had ever been resolved, but the cops probably hadn't exactly busted their tails over them, either. They rarely did when the victims were hardened criminals.

Diana lifted a rough piece of concrete and dropped it heavily on top of the papers on her desk. He glanced down at it.

"Vincent." The name was carved into the concrete in crude letters. It reminded him of all the times he'd carved his name into tree trunks as a kid. He looked back up at her. "Where'd you get this?"

"Drainage tunnel under the park. Did you know there are hundreds of unmapped tunnels beneath this city?"

"So?" From animals to concrete slabs to drainage tunnels? Where was she going with this?

"So—" She lifted her hands. Dropped them again in frustration. "I don't know." She started across the room. Turned back. "What kind of roses did she like?"

Joe blinked at the abrupt change of subject. "What do I look like, her florist?"

"The only way that you can get a red and a white rose to grow off the same bush is with a special graft. Did you know that?"

Joe shrugged. "Maybe she couldn't make up her mind."

Diana shook her head. "There's a language to flowers. The red rose means passion and love, and the white rose is eternity or death. Now somehow, I don't know how, but _somehow_ Vincent knew when she was in trouble, and he came to her. He was her _protector_."

Her _protector_? What the hell was she on? "You sound like you know this guy."

"Sometimes I feel like I do." She stood up and moved away to look out the window.

"Let's say I buy this for a second, okay?" He crossed to her side, gazing out at the dirty New York streets. "Where is he now?"

"Somewhere."

"Somewhere?" He tilted his head. _Somewhere_ was a pretty big place.

"Somewhere close." Beyond the window, the city of New York stretched away into the hazy distance.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Catherine had realized Vincent had something on his mind as soon as she'd woken up, but when he'd deflected her questions, she hadn't pushed. Now they were standing by the Mirror Pool and everything inside her had just turned to ice.

"No." The single syllable, flat and uncompromising, fell between them like a stone.

"Catherine—"

"How can you even consider it?" She folded her arms across her chest and hugged herself against a wave of piercing cold that had nothing to do with temperature.

"This man," Vincent said. "This _Gabriel_." He hesitated. "He's dangerous, Catherine."

"Do you think I don't _know_ that?" She heard the hysteria in her voice, but she was helpless to hold it back.

Gabriel's chiseled features rose in her mind, and for a panic-stricken instant she imagined _he_ stood before her. She gasped as the chamber walls gave way to water-stained acoustical tiles and halogen lights, and all at once she was back on that table, begging him to let her see her baby.

He'd barely even looked at her. "Finish it," he'd said, his voice flat, and cold, and utterly devoid of humanity.

She shook her head and drew in a shuddering breath, pushing the images back by sheer force of will.

"Six months, Vincent! Can you even conceive of what it was like?" Her voice trembled, and when he took a step towards her, she backed away from him, seeking refuge in the darkest corner of the shadowed chamber.

"They kept me locked up, and there were—" She closed her eyes as the memories washed over her in great suffocating waves. In her mind, she saw again the unblinking eyes of the cameras. They'd tracked every movement, every gesture, with silent, red-eyed, menace—until by the end, she'd even begun to suspect them of tracking her thoughts.

"I was never, _ever_ alone." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "And yet I've never felt so utterly and completely alone in all my life."

She'd been staring at the water while she talked, legs braced and shoulders hunched against the deluge of painful memories, but as her last words faded into the shadows something—a sound? An instinct?—made her lift her head. Vincent was watching her, some unfathomable emotion in his eyes, but when he reached out to her she flinched away again, seeing not _his_ hand, but the long, elegantly manicured fingers of a monster who only looked like a man.

"It's over now, Catherine." Vincent's voice barely reached her through the haze of remembered fear. "You're safe."

"No." She shook her head. "I'm not." She turned back to the water and the play of torchlight across its surface. "None of us are."

She sat down, leaning her shoulders against the reassuring solidity of the granite wall and pulling her knees up to her chest. Her voice was little more than a whisper when she continued. "I never knew whether it was day or night, sunny or rainy." Her eyes burned with tears but she blinked them away, her hands curling into fists. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't let it break her. Not now. Not ever. "There was no Thanksgiving. No Christmas or Winterfest—just the never-ending aloneness."

And the examinations. A shudder swept through her as she remembered the absolute humiliation, the degradation. No. She wouldn't talk about that. Not now. Maybe not ever. Not even to Vincent.

A whisper of sound alerted her to his movement, and she snapped her head up, wide-eyed with fear and fighting an unreasoning urge to flee as he crossed to her side. He moved slowly, as one might approach a wild bird with a broken wing, and when she flinched, he froze, sitting down an arm's length away and folding his legs beneath him. His cloak shrouded him in darkness, and though he didn't look at her, she sensed the intensity of his attention in his absolute stillness.

"The only thing I had," she said, when the fear subsided once more and her heart ceased its rapid tattoo against her ribs, "the _only_ thing that kept me going, was our baby." She imagined she could still feel him moving inside her, his tiny feet knocking against her ribs, his hiccups making her stomach leap and dance.

"I talked to him." Her voice softened and her hand settled protectively over her stomach, soothing the infant that was no longer there. "I didn't know what was going to happen to him, and I wanted him to know who his parents were and how much we loved him. So I would lie on the bed, and curl up around him, and whisper to him for hours."

She glanced up to find Vincent watching her with a tenderness that was almost more than she could bear. Hastily, she dropped her eyes, certain that if she held his gaze for too long, she'd lose her tenuous grip on her self-control.

"I told him everything." She remembered searching her mind, reliving every moment she'd shared with Vincent so that she could pass the memories on to their child. "I told him about me, and about you—about how we met and where you lived and how much I loved you and how happy you would be when you found him."

She knew it hurt him to hear this, but she couldn't seem to make herself stop talking. "I knew they wouldn't let me live, because I'd seen them. I could identify them. And I wanted our baby to know how lucky he was to have you for a father."

"Catherine . . ." The way he said her name, his voice rough with pain, made her lift her head. For a long moment, they stared at each other. Then, moving slowly, as if he was afraid he might frighten her again, he opened his arms. At first she did nothing, too deeply enmeshed in the nightmarish memories to accept the comfort he offered.

And then something broke loose inside her, and with a wrenching sob, she fell into his arms. Immediately, he pulled her close, surrounding her in protective warmth, and finally, blessedly, she let the tears come, because here, in the safety of his arms, she didn't have to be strong, didn't have to prove herself, or protect herself, or worry that he would think less of her for giving vent to the raw pain that peopled her nightmares and made her cling to him each time he ventured Above.

The storm eased slowly, giving way to exhausted silence. Gradually, she became aware that he was rocking her back and forth, crooning meaningless words in a low voice. She rested against him, taking strength from his love and his constant, unwavering belief in her. And when, a few minutes later, she began to speak again, her voice was steadier, the fear no longer a living, howling presence in her mind.

"When I went into labor," she said, without lifting her head from his chest, "I tried to hide it because I knew what it meant. I was terrified. Not for me, but for him, for what would happen to him after he was born." The leather pouch she'd given him rested against his chest, and she laid her hand over it. It felt warm beneath her palm, almost as if it pulsed with a life of its own. "I was excited, and curious. I wanted so badly to see him, to hold him in my arms. But at the same time, I wondered if it would hurt to die."

Vincent tensed, his arm tightening around her shoulders, and she shifted her arm to his waist to give him a reassuring hug. She hadn't died. She was here, by his side, where she belonged—where she would always belong.

"By the time they realized what was going on, the contractions were already so close together that I didn't have the strength to fight when they strapped me to the delivery table." She could still feel the straps biting into her skin, and she rubbed her wrist against the soft fabric of Vincent's sweater, trying to replace one tactile memory with another.

"After the baby came, I begged them to let me hold him, but I barely got a glance at his face before Gabriel took him away." That monster had smiled at her son, a twisted, triumphant grin that didn't reach his eyes. "And then the doctor was filling the syringe, and all I could think about was you and our son and how desperately sad I was that I would never see either of you again."

She sat up and turned so that she could see Vincent's eyes. "He had this strange look on his face. Regret maybe? I don't know, but after he gave me the shot he loosened the straps on my wrists, and before he left . . . before he left, he said he was sorry."

Vincent eased the hair away from her eyes. Then he bent and pressed his lips to her forehead.

"Perhaps," he said, drawing back, "he found his conscience."

Catherine thought back, trying to pinpoint what it was about the doctor's expression that had seemed so strange. "I guess it's possible."

She told Vincent how she'd almost given up then. With her baby gone, and the morphine already making her drowsy, she hadn't thought she had the strength to fight anymore. But then she'd heard a commotion in the halls. People running. And screams. And some remnant of hope had made her struggle to her feet.

"Somehow I knew you'd come for us, and that I had to find you, had to tell you about our son before it was too late. I don't remember climbing the stairs to the roof, and I don't know why I was so certain I would find you there, but I remember hearing the helicopter and seeing you standing there with the wind whipping through your hair." She'd never seen anything so beautiful, his hair and cloak flying in the wind, his body lit by the rooftop spotlights. "I was so happy that the last thing I'd see would be your face."

Vincent closed his eyes, his head falling back against the chamber wall, and Catherine knew that he, too, was remembering those moments.

"He took our son, Vincent. And he ordered my death." She gripped the edges of his leather vest in her hands, as though she would hold him there herself, force him to see reason. "How can you ask me to let you face him alone?"

"Catherine . . ." Her name was little more than a breath, his gaze agonized as he looked into her eyes. For the space of several heartbeats, he said nothing more, and when he did go on, his voice was just a whisper. "I still have no memory of the first time we loved. But last night, when you gave yourself to me, it . . . changed me." He touched her chin, urging her to look up at him. "You became a part of me. More, even, than you were before. More than I ever dreamed possible." He took her hands in his. "Your strength and your courage _live_ in me now. And when I go Above, I take you with me."

She started to shake her head, but he interrupted her before she could speak. "I can only imagine the pain, the horror, of what happened to you. If I could take that pain from you, I would, gladly. But I can't. And somewhere up there we have a son who needs us. Dig deep, Catherine. _Find_ your strength. It lives in you still. I'm certain of it." He leaned in, and she closed her eyes as his lips brushed across hers in tender affirmation of his belief in her. Afterwards, he cradled her face in his hands and brushed his thumbs across her cheeks. "Please. Let me go. Let me do what must be done."

"How do I live with the knowledge that I might lose both of you?" She almost couldn't get the words out—the mere thought of it too horrible to contemplate. She hated this weakness in herself, this horrible feeling of vulnerability. Would she ever again be the strong and confident woman he'd fallen in love with?

He shook his head. "Only by knowing that there is no other choice."

He was right. She knew he was right, even as her heart cried out against it.

"And if Gabriel does send someone else?" She was stalling now, grasping at wisps of arguments like a child reaching for soap bubbles.

"I'll be near. You'll be safe."

She stared at him, and it was there in his eyes, the fierce determination to protect the ones he loved from the evil that loomed over them all. Suddenly terrified of what the coming days might bring, she flung her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder, his name a desperate plea in the cool tunnel air. He answered with her own name as he held her tightly, almost desperately against him.

"I can't lose you, Vincent."

"I know," he murmured, stroking her back. "I know."


	18. Chapter 18

The small room was dingy—poorly lit and worn down by the passage of thousands of people through its long, weary lifetime. Elliot approached the window and tapped on the glass, leaving a faint grayish smudge in the thick film of dirt. Disgusted, he wiped his hand on his pant leg, his thoughts leaping ahead to the shower he'd take as soon as he got home. His suit was ruined, of course. What a waste.

The heavy panel snagged against its metal track as it slid open, and the resulting screech set Elliot's teeth on edge. A taciturn officer with garlic breath and sweat-stained armpits handed him a clipboard.

"Sign on the line."

With a nod, Elliot scrawled his signature and handed the clipboard back, trading it for a bulky envelope that contained his wallet and keys.

"Mr. Burch." The voice came from behind him, and Elliot turned to see a well-dressed man who smiled in a way that made him distinctly uneasy. "How nice to meet you at last." The man extended his hand in greeting. "I've heard so much about you."

Elliot ignored the hand. "Who the hell are you?"

"Jonathan Pope." Pope nodded at the empty envelope on the counter. "You're being released, Mr. Burch. Pending arraignment, of course."

Elliot looked around the deserted room. "Where's Richards? Did he set this up?"

"I'm afraid Mr. Richards has had to take himself off the case. His little girl is missing. Very sad." But Pope didn't look sad at all. Only content—the same way a cat looked content after finishing off a fat canary.

"Who sent you?"

"A friend." Pope smiled slightly. "Just think of him as the player on the other side."

"Gabriel." The name tasted like bile in Elliot's mouth.

"He's a great admirer of yours." With a polite nod of the head, Pope gestured toward the door. "And he's very anxious to meet you. Shall we?"

**xXx**

**xXx**

The short ride was accomplished in silence. Elliot watched the passing traffic, refusing to meet Pope's eyes as the big car glided through the quiet streets. Ten minutes later, they pulled to a stop at a painfully familiar cemetery.

"He's waiting for you," Pope said, letting him out of the car. "I trust you know the way."

Elliot eyed the bulge of a handgun visible underneath Pope's coat. "Will I be coming back?"

"That's entirely up to you, Mr. Burch." Pope got back in the car and slammed the door. The vehicle pulled away, leaving Elliot alone to face whatever—or whoever—was waiting for him.

The cemetery was empty, peopled only by the silent voices of the dead and the cold impassivity of their headstones. Tiny shoots of grass had already begun to grow over the grave, and Elliot stopped to stare at the recently placed marker—Cathy's entire life reduced to a few chiseled words, a pair of dates, and the fading scent of wilted flowers.

"Why do people put flowers on graves?"

Elliot turned to see a slim, dark-eyed man approach. The elusive Gabriel. It had to be.

Gabriel stopped at Elliot's side, his eyes on the bedraggled bouquets. "Do they really think it makes death smell sweeter?"

Elliot drew in a slow breath. He had to keep his head, had to think clearly. The only thing he had left was his mind. Everything else had been stripped away. "Why did you bring me here?"

"Does it make you uncomfortable?" Gabriel looked as though the idea amused him.

"Only the company." Cold fury laced the quiet words.

"Elliot." Gabriel's voice dripped with amused condescension. "The war is over. In a month you'll be bankrupt. In a year you'll be in prison. Half your people are already mine."

"You're lying." Elliot struggled to keep his composure as he wondered just how far Gabriel was willing to go.

"Maybe I am." Gabriel gave him a small, tight smile. "But how will you ever be sure?" Something about the voice, its timbre maybe, or its utter lack of inflection, sent a frisson of cold fear arcing along Elliot's spine.

"Machiavelli wrote that a wise prince knows it is better to be feared than loved," Gabriel said. He gestured with a wave of his arm. "Look around you. All these tombstones. All these wasted possibilities." He met Elliot's eyes. "There's no reason for us to be enemies, Elliot."

Elliot stabbed his finger toward the freshly planted slab of granite. "_There's_ your reason."

"Catherine Chandler." Gabriel eyed the headstone and sighed. "You know, if I had known all the trouble it would cause, I would never have killed her." He shook his head. "But it's done. There she lies. If you want to lie down beside her, so be it." He turned back to Elliot. "But I heard that you were a more practical man."

"Maybe I was. Once." Elliot's gaze was drawn back to the headstone. "She changed me."

Gabriel shook his head. "I don't think so."

"What do you mean?"

"I know you."

"You don't know anything about me," Elliot snarled.

"I know you," Gabriel said, unmoved by Elliot's outburst. "I know who you came from. I watched you climb. I know the price you paid. Rung by rung." Elliot saw a flash of gold as Gabriel twisted a ring on his finger. "The world is not that nice."

Elliot stared at Cathy's grave, remembering the beautiful, vibrant woman she'd been—and wishing there'd been a gun in that envelope they'd given him at the police station.

"But you and I," Gabriel said. "We're different. We belong to an earlier time." He glanced around the graveyard and then back at Elliot. Over their heads, a hawk drifted on the wind.

Gabriel tilted his head, watching the bird. "Five hundred years ago," he said, "we would've been conquerors. Kings. Smaller men would shower us with titles. And after we died, they would've built us pyramids." He shook his head, bringing his gaze back to Elliot. "You've come so far. You've pulled yourself up out of the dirt. Halfway to the stars. Do you really want to throw it all away for the sake of a woman who never loved you?"

The protest rose automatically to Elliot's lips. "She—"

"She what?" Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "She told _him_ everything about you. She told you . . .? Nothing about him."

Elliot tried to block out the words. He didn't want to hear this, couldn't bear to be reminded of Cathy's divided loyalties. But Gabriel went on, either not noticing or deliberately ignoring Elliot's discomfort.

"She kept his secrets. And _your_ dreams?" Gabriel shook his head. "Meant nothing to her."

The words were like knives in Elliot's heart, painful, sharp-edged things that made him want to cry out. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

"She loved him," Gabriel went on. "And she bore him a child."

Gabriel was manipulating him. Elliot knew that. It was a game he had used often in his own climb to success. And yet there was enough truth in the words to send a stab of jealous anger through his heart.

"_I_ didn't take her away from you, Elliot. _He_ did." Gabriel waited a beat. "But I could give it all back to you. Everything you've lost. Wealth. Power. I can help you own it. Together we can build towers that will last for a thousand years." He gestured at the grave. "Or . . . you can have this."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Catherine hesitated at the entrance to the store room. By the end of the day, Julia might regret agreeing to let her help. But she had to find a way to distract herself from her loneliness. It had only been a day since Vincent had left her by the mirror pool, but already it felt like a lifetime.

"Julia?"

"Here," Julia's cheerful voice rang out from the other end of the room. "Is that you, Catherine?"

"Sure is."

"There's a box there by the table. Would you mind bringing it back here?"

"No problem." Catherine found Julia surrounded by piles of clothing and discarded hangers. "Here you go."

"Great. Thanks." Julia indicated an empty spot on the floor and Catherine set down the box. "One of the helpers sent down a new shipment today. I thought I'd try to get it sorted before dinner." She picked up a handful of hangers. "You here to chat? Or to work."

"To work."

Julia nodded sympathetically. "'Tis a lonely washing that has no man's shirt in it," she said. "Me Mum used to say that." She passed the hangers to Catherine and waved at the clothing filled box as she went on. "When I was a girl, I wondered what she meant by it. Now . . ." She sighed. There was a sadness in her eyes that made Catherine wonder what had brought her to the tunnels.

With a little shrug of her shoulders, Julia picked up a shirt, examining it in the torch-light. "What do you think?" she asked. "Pascal?"

Catherine grinned. The shirt was bright orange, with a wide black collar and cuffs. "Father, I think."

Julia laughed, and the somber moment passed as they got to work. Some of the clothes went right onto hangers. Others were sorted into piles to be remade into other items.

"Do you know how to quilt?" Julia asked at one point.

"No," Catherine said. "My mother died when I was very young, and my father wasn't exactly the crafty type."

"Mary makes lovely quilts. Have you seen them?"

Catherine nodded. "I doubt I could ever sew like that."

"Sure you can. We'll start tonight." She began piling sorted clothing in one of the discarded boxes. "After all," she said. "Well begun is half done."

"Your mother again?"

"No." Julia tossed her an impish smile. "Aristotle."

**xXx**

**xXx**

The dilapidated building brought back painful childhood memories—memories Elliot tried to block out as he followed the sound of the music. Jazz again. Such beauty for such a sad place. He found Clarence's room and knocked twice on the scarred wooden door. The music stopped. The door opened. Inside, Elliot saw faded furniture, an old lamp, and a scattering of newspapers. Clarence looked at him expectantly, the golden saxophone cradled lovingly in his arms.

"Can I help you, Mr. Burch?"

Elliot tried a smile, but it felt stiff. "Do I look like I need help?"

The old man gazed shrewdly at him. "Poor men aren't the only ones who lose their way."

"I know my way." Elliot held out a piece of paper wrapped around a hundred-dollar bill.

Clarence took the folded stationary and tucked it in his pocket.

"Don't you want the money?"

Shaking his head, Clarence started to close the door. "I'll see that he gets your note. No charge."

Elliot put his foot out to stop the door from closing completely. He offered the money again. "Not for the note. For the music."

Clarence eyed him sharply for a moment, and then with a brief nod of gratitude accepted the bill. Then the door closed again, and Elliot shoved his hands deep inside his pockets as he turned away, forcing himself not to think about what Cathy would say if she knew what he'd just set in motion.

**xXx**

**xXx**

The absence of sound hammered at Vincent's ears—the dull thud of his own heartbeat and the faint whoosh of blood through his veins his only proof that he had not, as he almost believed, crossed over into some Dante-inspired netherworld peopled by dark and silent spirits. With a sigh, he gave up on reading and closed the book, his gaze boring into the impenetrable blackness that prowled hungrily just beyond the reach of the torch.

He missed her. The feeling was not new to him, but it had a new depth, as if his entire body yearned for her presence instead of just his heart. Every fiber of his being called out to him to go to her—to take her in his arms, bury his face in her hair and draw her scent deep into his lungs. And yet he remained convinced that the only hope he had of protecting her lay in his absence.

A scuffling sound distracted him from his thoughts, and he stiffened, sinking deeper into the shadows. As he watched and waited, he recognized the regular pattern of human footsteps. When the intruder was nearly upon him, Vincent leapt out of his hiding place with a roar that made his visitor leap back with a sudden cry of fear.

"Vincent! You scared me!"

Blowing out a breath as the adrenalin rush eased, Vincent relaxed back against the wall. "Remember that fear. It could keep you alive." He watched Mouse tug his helmet back into place. "How did you find me?"

"Can't hide from Mouse." Mouse lifted his chin, his jaw tightening stubbornly. "Want to help."

Vincent shook his head. "Nothing you can do."

"Plenty Mouse can do. Building, fixing, finding, taking . . ."

"Dying?" It was harsh, but Mouse had to be made to understand the danger. "This is something I must do alone."

"Mouse was alone once. Alone is bad. Worse than bad. Worse than worse." He thrust a crumpled piece of paper at Vincent.

Vincent unfolded it and read the short message.

_Compass Rose. Meet me. Good news_.

Mouse shifted restlessly, never one to stand still for long. "What was in the note?"

Vincent refolded the slip of paper and tucked it in his pocket. "Hope."

Lifting his head, he gazed into the blackness, a blackness whose edges seemed almost to glimmer with golden light. Emily Dickinson was right, he thought. Hope truly is the thing with feathers.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Diana stared at the wall of pictures. Catherine Chandler. Elliot Burch. Joe Maxwell. Dozens of nameless faces. She held a worn book of poetry in her hand, and now she pulled her gaze from the pictures to open it, looking for Thomas Gray's _Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard_. The line that caught and held her gaze had been repeating itself in her mind for days.

"The paths of glory lead but to the grave." She read the words aloud. Slowly. Rolling each one on her tongue while she tried to understand the message her subconscious was trying to communicate.

It hit her all at once. She snapped the book closed, wincing when a too slow fingertip got caught between the covers. That was it. "Her grave."

Of course! Vincent would visit the cemetery. He'd have to. Whatever had kept him away on the day of the funeral, he'd have to see her final resting place. His love for Catherine would demand it.

She would wait for him there.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Something had drawn Father to the mirror pool, some inexplicable need, and now he stared into the still waters and tried to put aside the misgivings that had plagued him ever since Vincent had told him of his decision to leave. Vincent was a man, with a man's will, and Father had no place interfering with that. Still, he wouldn't rest easily until Vincent was safely home.

There was a light footstep behind him, and he turned to see Brooke entering the small chamber. She cast a wary look at the water, as if wondering whether the spirits of Steven and Sam might yet be lurking in its depths.

"Father, I had to find you. Ask you—" She came to a stop just inside the entrance. "Was it because of me that Vincent went away?"

There was a great deal of pain in her voice. And guilt. She was too young to bear such a heavy burden, and Father's heart ached to see her suffer so.

"No, child. Come here." When she did, he put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to his side, sharing what little comfort he could. Together, they looked at the reflected image of the night sky.

"Vincent left because he had to," Father said. "Because he loved us. And because his destiny lies up there, now." He cast a glance upward, to where the sky was hidden beyond the stone ceiling of the chamber. "Beneath those . . . stranger stars."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent passed through the cemetery again, but this time he didn't linger at the empty grave. He was in a hurry. Elliot had news. Perhaps he would finally have the information Vincent sought. The thought gave speed to his steps, and he arrived at the boatyard long before the appointed meeting time. At its boundary, he slowed to a stop and scanned for any sign that he was not alone. But all was quiet.

Staying in the shadows, he slipped into the boatyard and made his way to the furthest pier. There he hesitated again, every sense alert to the presence of others. There was nothing. He straightened his hood, hiding himself more deeply in its dark folds before moving forward once more. This time, he didn't stop until he was safely on board the _Compass Rose_.

He settled down in the darkness to wait.

**xXx**

**xXx**

After dinner, Julia showed Catherine the way to the sewing chamber. Mary was already there, along with Lena and Sara and several other women, some of whom Catherine recognized and others who were new to her. The women welcomed her warmly, and the unfamiliar twinge of shyness that had hovered over Catherine when she'd first entered soon faded. The feeling bothered her. Ordinarily, she enjoyed meeting new people. But then, these weren't just any strangers; these women were part of Vincent's family, and for his sake, she wanted them to like her.

A quilting frame stood in one corner of the chamber, a partially finished quilt stretched across it, and a nearby loom was strung with brightly colored yarns. Somebody was weaving something. A rug, maybe? An old sewing machine rested on a table near the chamber entrance, and boxes of fabric and notions lined the walls and spilled out of two wooden cabinets. Somehow Catherine couldn't imagine immersing herself in this alien world of needles and thread on any kind of regular basis, but the work might at least provide a distraction from the fear and worry that knotted her shoulders and kept her awake at night.

"The buttons come off first," Mary was saying. "They go in there." She indicated an old cookie tin in the center of the table. "The cuffs and collars go in that box beside you. Then we take out the seams and see what we have left." She showed Catherine the shirt she was working with. "If you're careful, you can get five good pieces of fabric out of a shirt. Sleeves, two front pieces, and a nice piece from the back."

"Pants and skirts aren't much different," said Julia from the other side of the table. "Save the buttons, snaps, and zippers, take out the seams, sort out the rest. We don't get too many of those, though. Most of what comes in goes back out to the community almost at once. But there are times—" She held up the pair of pants she'd been working with. Bright pink with yellow stripes. "—we get some in that even we tunnel dwellers refuse to wear." She grinned.

Catherine tried to smile back, but she was distracted. Where was Vincent now? What was he doing? Was he safe? She forced her attention back to the job at hand. She had to stay busy. Pulling a brightly flowered shirt out of the box beside her, she set to work. _Be well, Vincent_, she thought. _Come back to me_.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent felt Elliot's approach before he heard it. There was a slight ripple in the air, a sensation of another presence close at hand. Seconds later he heard the thud of heavy footsteps against the dock. He saw Elliot stop and peer down into the darkness.

"Elliot." Vincent kept his voice low. He was uneasy, but he didn't know why. Something was wrong.

"Vincent," Elliot said. "Come here. I've got something to show you."

There was tension in Elliot's voice. And anger. Why? Vincent stepped out of the shadows, but he stayed low, every sense alert. "What's wrong?"

"You're what's wrong." Elliot said bitterly. "Look at you. I could've given Cathy the whole world. What did you give her?"

Vincent was startled by the venom in Elliot's voice, but he answered honestly. Elliot deserved that much from him.

"All I could," he said. "All I had. All I was." It was the truth, or as much of it as Vincent could give. Elliot believed that Catherine was dead, and if he blamed Vincent for that it was right that he should be angry. But why now?

Elliot stared at him, and Vincent could see him thinking, considering something he could only guess at. Then his expression hardened with determination, and he cast a hurried glance over his shoulder.

"The message was a lie." The bitterness was gone, replaced by stark fear. "Get out of here. Now! You were a fool to trust me!"

Vincent hesitated, confused. The message was a lie? How could that be? Why would Elliot lie to him?

"Go! Now!" There was terror in Elliot's voice now, and an edge of panic.

Vincent reached out to him. "Catherine trusted you," he said. "Let me help you, Elliot."

"Vincent!"

Elliot tumbled forward into Vincent's arms as a sharp crack of noise split the night air. Gunfire. Vincent lowered Elliot to the deck and felt the warm stickiness of blood against his fingers. Stunned by the unexpected turn of events, Vincent knew only that he had to act, had to get them both to safety.

Elliot fumbled in his pocket. "Take this. Go!"

The ring. Vincent dropped it in his pocket as he shook his head. "You wouldn't leave me." Could Elliot swim? Could he tow him to safety in the murky waters? A hail of bullets ricocheted off metal and thudded into soft wood. There was no time to delay.

"You're damn right I would." Elliot's voice was tight with pain.

"You're lying again." Vincent's voice was calm, but his mind raced.

What came next happened so fast that later Vincent would have trouble piecing it together. Elliot shoved him, and the boat rocked violently beneath his feet, and then he felt himself losing his balance, the world tilting crazily as he fell. There was a shout. His? Elliot's?

And then the world exploded.

**xXx**

**xXx**

"No!"

Catherine saw a bright flash of light, felt a sudden, excruciating pain, and heard a sound louder and more terrifying than any she had ever heard before. She struggled against a horrible conviction that she was sinking, dragged down into utter blackness by something she couldn't see and didn't know how to fight. Mary and Julia were bending over her. They were white-faced, and they were saying something to her, but Catherine couldn't understand the words, couldn't bring herself to speak the fear that tore through her heart.

**xXx**

**xXx**

When the streak of light fell across the mirror pool, Father caught his breath. He wasn't a superstitious man, but tonight, with so much unrest, so much fear and worry weighing on him, the falling star felt like an omen.

"Father . . ." Brooke's voice came to him from a distance. "What's wrong?"

The quote came unbidden, the words falling from his lips of their own accord. "When beggars die," he said, "there are no comets seen." He stared at the place the flash had disappeared, his arm tightening around Brooke's thin shoulders. "But the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes."

**xXx**

**xXx**

The nursery was quiet, lit only by the moonlight that streamed through the wide windows. A mobile swung gently over the ornate crib, stirred to life by the press of Gabriel's body against the narrow railing.

The child was awake. Alert. Crying in the darkness. In fact, Gabriel realized, his son almost never slept in his presence. He wondered at the meaning of that. Then he decided it was more proof of the child's extraordinary abilities. Julian waved his arms and kicked at the light cotton blanket that covered his legs, his small face wet with tears.

Gabriel reached out and adjusted the blanket. The child must stay warm. His health was paramount.

"Don't be afraid," he said, remembering the bright flash as the Compass Rose had exploded, sending flaming debris across the boatyard. He'd solved two problems tonight, a fact that brought a smile of satisfaction to his lips. "It's over. You're safe now."

Julian's tears glistened in the moonlight.


	19. Chapter 19

It was a chilly night, made even more so by the brooding tombstones and lifeless statuary. Diana tugged her jacket more closely about her as she waited in the darkness. Had her instincts been wrong? But they rarely were. She had a knack for this stuff. It was how she'd earned the right to pick and choose her cases, the privilege of working on only one case at a time. And yet, as the hours passed and nothing happened, she began to doubt herself. Why had she assumed that Vincent would come on her first night here? Why had she assumed he'd come at all? Maybe he'd found other ways to say goodbye to the woman he'd loved so much.

She glanced up, her eyes tracking the path of a comet across the sky. Somehow she knew that this was no beggar's comet. Somewhere, a prince had died this night. She shuddered as a superstitious shiver straightened her spine. Then, behind her, she heard a sound. Heavy, labored breathing. The faint rustle of a footstep. And then a muffled thud.

Spinning around, Diana peered into the darkness, struggling to make out the bulky shape in the shadows.

She fumbled for her flashlight. Flicked it on. Directed its light toward Cathy's grave. It was a man. He was big, with long, tangled hair and dark clothing covered by some kind of cloak.

Her heart caught in her throat. Was this Vincent at last? She hesitated, waiting to see what he would do, but he lay still and unmoving, his body sprawled across the grave. Something was wrong. Cautiously, she eased closer, one hand on the gun in her pocket, the other holding tightly to the flashlight. When she reached his side, she ran the beam over the unmoving figure. He still didn't stir, and she dropped to her knees. He was lying on his stomach, and it took all of her strength to roll him over.

The face that met her eyes was like nothing she'd ever seen, and she gasped as she jerked her hands away. What the _hell_?

**xXx**

**xXx**

Catherine came awake with a start. It took her a second to realize that she was still in the sewing chamber. Her head ached terribly, and she struggled to focus on the women who were crowded around her, their faces creased with worry.

"Catherine? Are you all right?" Mary rubbed her back while Julia poured her a glass of water.

"Yes." But the small nod sparked a shaft of pain, and she winced as she accepted the glass from Julia. She sipped slowly, feeling it cool her throat while she tried to think. "I . . . what happened?" And why did she have this overwhelming feeling of dread? Her thoughts were fuzzy and tangled, a mass of chaotic, shifting emotions.

Mary and Julia exchanged a look. "You fainted, dear." Mary straightened. "Julia, would you run and get Father? I believe he's at the mirror pool. I saw him headed that way earlier."

Catherine held up a hand. "No. Please don't bother him. I'm all right." Or she would be, once this horrible headache eased. But something had happened to Vincent, and she had to find him. He was Above somewhere; she was certain of it. And he was hurt.

"Are you sure?"

Standing up, Catherine backed away from the table, forcing her legs to support her weight, fighting to appear calm when inside, rising fear was urging her to run. "I'm fine. I just . . . I need to do something."

She fled the room, ignoring the voices calling out behind her. If they knew where she was going, they would try to stop her. And she didn't have time to argue with them.

Pausing at her chamber just long enough to grab her cloak, she headed Above.

**xXx**

**xXx**

He was unconscious and badly hurt. Diana could see blood on his face and matted in his hair. As she stared at him, at the face that looked more feline than human, snippets of conversation flashed through her mind. ". . . c_oroner said it looked more like an animal attack_." "_He's her protector._" "_Up seventeen flights with no witnesses_." She stood. Backed away a step. Stared down at him.

"Vincent." She was barely aware that she'd spoken, the words ghosting away from her on a whisper. He wasn't safe here. If someone saw him, someone who didn't know, didn't understand . . . She needed help. But who? A pale gleam of light at the other end of the cemetery drew her attention. There.

The night watchman jumped up when she burst into his hut.

"Jesus, Lady!" He shined his flashlight in her eyes and she raised her hands against the glare.

"I need your help." Adrenalin tightened her chest and pushed the words out in a rush. Would he still be there when she got back? Or would he be gone, leaving her to wonder forever whether he'd been a figment of her imagination?

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?" The watchman lowered the light.

"I didn't mean to scare you, but . . ." Diana searched her mind for some explanation that would make sense, some way to convince him of the urgency of her need without giving too many details. "I need your help."

"At midnight?" He had a strong accent. Hispanic, maybe. Diana's detective brain filed the detail away with millions of others. "What kind of help do you need?"

"It'll take an hour tops, I promise. I'll pay you." Just _please_, _please_ come. She resisted the urge to grab his arm and pull, but she couldn't stop herself from taking a step closer.

He hesitated. "How much?"

Her wallet was in her pocket. She grabbed for it, yanked out the bills, and flipped through them before waving the jumbled wad in his direction. "Here. That's sixty-two dollars."

He took the money, glanced down at the bills and then, warily, back at her. "You still didn't tell me what for."

_Jesus_. Come _on_ already! She took a deep breath, forcing herself to sound calmer than she felt. "A friend."

"A friend." He sneered. "Lady, I'm a watchman. I got work to do." But she could see he was wavering, and she waited, sending a silent prayer heavenward while he studied her in the light of the flashlight beam. Finally, he nodded. "Okay. I guess for a beautiful lady I can make an exception."

"Let's go." She led him through the graveyard at a run.

Vincent was still there. Diana blew out a sigh of relief when they reached his side. Luckily, he hadn't moved, or he might have dislodged the cloak she'd pulled over his face. The watchman stared down at him, shaking his head.

"What happened? He drink too much?"

"I don't know." Though she doubted alcohol was responsible for the condition of his face. The watchman couldn't see that, though, and she wasn't about to give a demonstration.

"You better give him some air." He reached for the corner of the cloak, but Diana pushed his hand away.

"Just give me a hand." She struggled to lift Vincent, to get him on his feet.

"Fine," the watchman said. "But don't tell me what this is about. I don't want to know." He ducked under Vincent's other arm, and with a grunt, helped her get him on his feet. Vincent's head hung down, and he made no move to help them, but his low groan told Diana that at least he was still alive.

She flung her arm around Vincent's waist and tugged his arm further over her shoulder as together, she and the watchman dragged Vincent through the cemetery and into a waiting cab.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Father sat alone by the waterfall. Something had drawn him here, something he didn't quite understand. And yet he felt it was the only place he could be right now. At the sound of approaching footsteps, he looked up. It was Mary, and she looked troubled as she crossed to his side.

"Hello, Mary."

"Father." She sat down beside him. "Are you okay?"

He nodded. "Just worried." His studied her expression. "Something's happened. I can see it in your face. Tell me."

"It's Catherine."

Catherine had said something to him at dinner about helping in the sewing chamber. He'd been pleased, thinking she was starting to make a place for herself. What could possibly have gone wrong? "Tell me."

"We were doing piecework. One minute everything was fine and then—" She trailed off, fear and concern filling her eyes.

"Mary?" He put his hand on her shoulder.

"She cried out, Father. It was an awful thing." Beneath his fingers, Father felt her shudder. "And then she fainted."

He started to get to his feet, but Mary caught at his arm. "No. She's okay. She was only out for a moment." She looked away, her eyes going to the chamber entrance. "She's gone, Father. Julia and I have looked everywhere for her. And she took her cloak."

"Dear God." Father sank down heavily. "What about the sentries?"

"I sent a message to Pascal. He's checking."

He sighed and dropped his head. Undoubtedly, something had happened to Vincent, and Catherine had gone after him. He could only pray she would find him in time.

"You should sleep," Mary said, her eyes on his face.

"I wish I could. But with Vincent gone, and now Catherine . . ." He shook his head. "I'm afraid, Mary. Terribly afraid."

"We all are."

"I thought, I _hoped_, I could shelter him from the world Above."

"Father—"

"It was an impossible hope." That he had been able to protect Vincent, even for this long, was something of a miracle, really. "It makes me question the worth of everything we've taught ourselves. Everything we've learned." He stared out at the waterfall, his gaze distant. "We've struggled so hard to maintain our isolation. Our separateness. What kind of legacy is that to leave our people?"

"It's a legacy of love," Mary said. "The capacity to love ourselves, and to love each other."

He looked to the rising mists as though seeking in them the answers to all his fears. But his mind was elsewhere. "I'm afraid love holds no sway where fate has taken Vincent and Catherine."

**xXx**

**xXx**

His face was badly cut and bruised. Carefully, Diana cleaned the wounds and bandaged them. A quick fumble through her collection of outdated prescription bottles netted her a handful of antibiotics and pain-killers, but were they safe to give to him? Or would they only make things worse? She didn't know, but she couldn't exactly call a doctor and ask. Besides, who would believe her if she told them she'd found a wild man-beast in the cemetery and brought him home with her like some kind of stray puppy? Resolutely, she crushed the pills, mixed them with water, and tipped them down his throat with a teaspoon.

When she'd done all she could think to do, she pushed the hair back from his face and studied him more carefully.

He was extraordinary. With trembling fingers, she traced his eyebrows and nose, his mouth, the shape of his upper lip. She touched the soft, golden fur that coated his cheeks and jaw. How had he come to be? What accident of genetics had created him? And how had he avoided detection by the scientists and doctors who would undoubtedly lock him up somewhere to be poked, prodded, and studied?

Suddenly aware of the intimacy of her touch and the invasion of his privacy, she moved away to sit in the big chair in the corner of the room. With her eyes locked on his unconscious form, she tucked her legs underneath her and began a lonely vigil.

**xXx**

**xXx**

At this hour, the cemetery held only the ghosts of the dead and the lingering sadness of departed mourners. Catherine moved quickly. She didn't know where the grave was, so she hurried up and down the rows, peering at headstones, her heart beating fast.

At last she saw it. The dirt hadn't yet settled, but grass had already begun to grow, tender shoots of green warming the empty coffin beneath.

There was no sign of Vincent.

Catherine circled the grave, her eyes averted from the headstone. She didn't want to see it, didn't want to see her own name and the phantom dates and the reminder that she was dead and yet not. Instead she focused on the ground as she searched for some sign of Vincent's passage.

There. A flattened patch of grass. Was it big enough? She crossed to it. Knelt down on her knees to look closer.

It was big enough. She ran her hands over the spot. It was cool and dewy with the night air. He hadn't been here recently. But he _had_ been here. He had lain in this spot—alone, hurt, and afraid. As she smoothed her fingers over the grass, she imagined Vincent's body beneath her palms. There. A darker spot. Her fingers came away from it stained with his blood. She raised her head, her gaze going to the city skyline.

"Vincent," she whispered to the night. "Where are you?"

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent slept deeply, his big body sprawled across the too-small bed. His breaths were regular and deep, his heartbeat—as near as Diana could tell—normal. He had begun to run a fever, but all she could do was bathe him with cool cloths. She did that now, her hands gentle as she ministered to him. Would he live? Would he survive his injuries to tell her about himself? And if he didn't, what then? How would she explain him to the authorities?

Reluctantly, Diana left the room. She needed the bathroom and something to drink. While she waited for water to heat on the stove, she wandered to the bulletin board, her eyes scanning the assortment of news articles and pictures.

Many of the articles spoke of bizarre killings, the victims of which had been criminals themselves. Vincent had been responsible for all of them. She was sure of it. But did that make him a murderer? Or a man defending the woman he loved?

She needed to make sense of it all, to order her thoughts and find some perspective on the extraordinary events of the night. Sitting down at her desk, she turned on the computer and reached for the keyboard.

_October 10, 1989. 3:30 AM. _

_Graveyard hunch paid off this morning, just after midnight. Hard to process the details. Hard enough trying to explain to myself what has happened. What I've found._

"I've found Vincent." She said it aloud. She still couldn't quite believe it—still felt as though she'd wake up to find it had all been a dream. And yet he was here, asleep in her bed in the next room.

_I found him at her grave. Half dead. Don't know if he's going to make it. Can't call the doctor. I'm scared. Disoriented. Even though he's in the next room it's impossible to believe he's really there. The thought of him is too great to hold in my head._

A sudden roar brought her head up and around with a jerk. Vincent. She ran, bursting through the bedroom door to find him thrashing wildly on the bed. A terrifying roar burst from his throat as he shredded the pillow and mattress with his bare hands. She pressed back against the wall, fear making her heart race. He flailed. Kicked out. Struggled against an unseen attacker. His arm smashed the bedside table, sending its contents crashing to the floor while she cringed still further back into the corner, praying he wouldn't see her, wouldn't turn those lethal claws and teeth on her. Finally he groaned and grew still, but it was several minutes before Diana relaxed enough to move from her position in the corner.

Never trust a perp. It had been Russ's first rule of criminal investigation, a rule he'd drilled into her until she'd once caught herself dreaming about it. Diana swallowed hard and forced herself to breathe. To think. She hadn't made a mistake like this in years, and she cursed herself for it now. She'd assumed that a man who read poetry and liked kids couldn't possibly hurt her. She'd trusted Vincent without ever having met him, and even after seeing those deadly claws and gleaming fangs, she'd still believed herself safe in his presence. God, she was _such_ an idiot.

Her handgun was in the top drawer of her desk. She took it out and checked to see that it was loaded. She would keep it with her. And she would stay in the room. Where she could watch him. And where she could do what needed to be done if it came down to a choice between her life and his.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Catherine stood up and looked around, still averting her gaze from the headstone that bore her name. In the distance she saw a small building with a light glowing in the window. The night watchman. For the first time since she'd met Vincent, she found herself hoping a stranger had seen him.

With a last glance down at the flattened grass and the empty grave, she moved off. He wouldn't know her face, this watchman, wouldn't know he was talking to a dead woman. And even if he did, it was a risk she had to take. She needed to know if he had seen Vincent. Nothing else mattered.

She arrived at the door and knocked once, softly. When it opened, a slim, dark-haired man faced her in the darkness.

"Well," he said, looking her over. "I never knew cemeteries were so popular with the ladies."

"Please." She kept her voice low in an effort to disguise it. "I need your help."

"Listen lady. I ain't doin' any more favors tonight. Risked my job once already. Not gonna do it again. Not even for a pretty face."

"No, you don't understand. Just . . . A question. Please."

She felt his eyes on her, but she kept her head averted, hiding her face in the deep folds of the cloak. At last, he sighed.

"What kind of question?"

"Did anything happen here tonight? Anything unusual?"

"What do you mean, unusual?"

Catherine struggled to find words that would get her meaning across without giving away too much information. "I'm looking for a man."

She felt his eyes on her again, but she didn't look up. She sensed his capitulation in his sigh.

"Big guy? Dark clothes?"

Hope surged through her. She nodded.

"Yeah. He was here. Passed out on one of the graves. Must've been some party, lady."

Not exactly. "Do you know where he went?"

He shook his head. "Some lady was here. I helped her haul him to a cab. Don't know where they went after that."

What lady? And where had she taken Vincent? Catherine remembered another time when Vincent had been taken from her. She'd almost lost him then. Was it happening all over again? Was she destined, once again, to find him locked in a cage somewhere?

"What did she look like?"

"Red hair. Tall. Seemed pretty frantic to get him out of here. He in some kind of trouble?"

"Maybe." Probably. "Did you see what direction—?"

The watchman jerked his head. "North. Coulda gone anywhere, though. Listen, lady. I'd love to stay and chit chat, but I got rounds to do."

She nodded. "Thank you for your help."

He closed the door in her face, leaving her standing in the dark. Catherine started toward the street. She would search until she found him.

**xXx**

**xXx**

The sound of the lift startled Diana into wakefulness. She glanced over at Vincent, but he slept on, undisturbed by the noise. She tucked the gun out of sight and went to meet the lift, knowing it was Mark, knowing she would have to send him away. He wasn't going to be happy about that.

With a glace back at the closed bedroom door, she slid open the metal gate. _Please, God. Don't let him wake up now_.

She was right. It was Mark.

"Hi," he said. He had a garment bag slung over his shoulder.

"You can't stay, Mark. I'm sorry."

"Can I at least come in?"

She dropped her eyes, unwilling to face the disappointment in his, but she didn't step back, didn't invite him in.

"Your work." With a frustrated sigh, he backed up to lean against the wall of the lift.

"I'll ride down with you." She tried not to think of the possibility that Vincent might wake up while she was gone. She owed Mark this much, at least.

"No." He shook his head.

"Mark . . ."

"You said Saturday." The anger and disappointment in his gaze were almost palpable.

"I know I said Saturday. Just don't be mad." And yet she wanted, desperately, for him to leave.

"I _am_ mad, and I got a damn good reason to be mad!"

"I'm really close on this one." She didn't want to do this right now, didn't want to fight with him. She didn't have the energy.

He gazed at her with hurt eyes. Then he looked away and punched the button. "Yeah."

The doors closed, and she pulled the gate across and stood listening as the lift groaned its way back down. When it was gone and she was sure Mark wasn't going to change his mind, she hurried back to the bedroom.

Vincent was awake. He struggled to focus on her.

"Catherine?" He had a deep voice, with a rough edge that sounded oddly musical to her ear.

"No." She took a breath. "My name's Diana."

He dropped his head back to the pillow. And then he was asleep again, the effort of sustained consciousness draining what little energy he had. She went back to the chair and settled down to watch once more.

The next time he awoke, he was frightened again. Disoriented. Before she could stop him, he was up and moving across the room and she had no idea how to reach him, how to reassure him that he was safe. And so she backed away, keeping her distance, watching him while her heart pounded and her mouth went dry with fear. He roared a challenge and slammed into the wall, hands raised, claws gleaming in the dim light as he tore at it. Then, his energy expended once more, he collapsed, his body crumpling to the floor under an avalanche of wood and plaster.

She sank to the floor in the corner, the gun still gripped tightly in her hand. How much longer would this go on? Would he ever recover? Would he become again the kind and gentle man whose heart she'd seen in the poems he'd left for Cathy Chandler? Or was this what he had become since her death, this wild beast capable only of destruction?

It was several hours later when he woke again. He struggled to sit up, leaning against the wall, panting heavily with effort and pain. The harsh sound was loud in the silence of the room, but when he looked around, she could see that the delirium had passed. He was more coherent, more in control and aware of his surroundings than he had been since she'd found him.

"Where am I?"

His voice was low, but the words were clear. Cultured. He was educated. She'd guessed that already, but hearing it in his voice made it all more real somehow.

"You're in my loft. I found you in the graveyard behind Saint Clare's."

"I don't remember—" He paused. Blinked. "I must go." He tried to get to his feet, failed, and settled back against the wall. "You brought me—"

"You were hurt." She knelt on the floor beside him. Carefully. Cautiously. Ready to leap to her feet and flee at the slightest provocation from him. "You've lost a lot of blood." There was pain in his eyes. And something that looked like desperation. She tried to reassure him. "You're safe here. You need help."

He shook his head, but she knew it was a token gesture. He didn't have the strength to do anything more. In seconds, he was unconscious again. Diana went to the bed. A quick yank freed the comforter, and she spread it over him where he lay on the floor. Then she sat back down in the chair and pulled her knees up to her chest, resuming her vigil.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Catherine lost track of the passage of time. Her feet, blistered and raw, throbbed with pain at every step. She'd not eaten or slept. She'd hidden in the corners, and the dark places, and the alleys, all the places where lost souls disappeared in the grimy fabric of city life. The cloak was dirty now, its edges frayed and torn. Twice someone had tried to take it from her, but she'd fought with such fierce determination, such desperate strength, that they'd given up, backing away from her as though from a wild animal. Once, she'd even snarled.

She'd gained new understanding of Vincent's life, of the world he inhabited when he prowled the streets at night. It was a side of New York she'd rarely seen, and then only in terrifying glimpses. Like most New Yorkers, she'd turned away from those glimpses too often in the past, walking past the homeless and the disenfranchised without even seeing them.

Until now, she'd never truly understood what it was to be lost—alone, afraid, and invisible in a city of millions.

Her feet had carried her to all of the places she'd shared with Vincent and to all those they'd merely talked about. She'd been to the hospitals and the jails and the courthouse, to the libraries, and museums, and theaters. She'd been to the docks, too, had seen the charred remains of the _Compass Rose_ listing sadly at its moorings. The site of the blackened skeleton had sickened her, even though she knew that Vincent wasn't there.

She'd risked her safety countless times, asking carefully worded questions of strangers, peering into windows, haunting news stands. She'd read everything, every newspaper and magazine, every tabloid, every scrap of paper stapled to light poles and bulletin boards. And she'd listened shamelessly to every conversation—passersby, families in the park, museum goers and train riders and homeless people. But there'd been nothing.

She'd even considered going to Joe, but she'd discarded that idea almost at once. Joe's honor, and his concern for her, would lead him to make decisions that could only endanger Vincent further. Besides, how would she ever explain Vincent to Joe? Maybe, if she didn't find Vincent soon, she would go to him. But not yet.

Twice she had approached the Central Park tunnel entrance, only to turn back, unable to bring herself to enter. Vincent was Above. Her son was Above. They needed her. And so she would stay Above, too. And she would search until she found them.

Her fingers closed around a crumpled bit of newspaper in her pocket. It was the article about the explosion on the _Compass Rose_—the explosion that had happened while she was safe and sound Below.

Lifting her eyes to the city, to its bright lights and skyscrapers and anonymity, she said another prayer for his safety. Then she returned her gaze to the stained concrete sidewalk, and started walking.


	20. Chapter 20

Diana didn't know how long she'd slept, but when she opened her eyes, Vincent was watching her, his eyes a brilliant shade of blue that pinned her to the chair.

"I know you."

She shook her head. "I don't think so."

"Yes." There was no room for doubt in his voice. He turned his head to gaze at the damaged wall, and she wondered what he was thinking. Did he remember what had happened? Did he feel remorse? Or was he merely observing?

"Vincent."

His head swiveled back to her. "You know my name."

Slowly, she rose from her chair and went to him. "Let me help you." She supported him as he got to his feet.

He struggled for balance, grunting a little with pain, and finally accepted her help. "How long have I been here?"

"Three days."

He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. "You were in Catherine's apartment. And Below, in her basement." He stared at her. "Tell me why. Please."

"I'm with the police department. I was investi . . . I'm still investigating Catherine Chandler's death."

He dropped his eyes, his expression unreadable beneath the heavy brows. "Her murder."

"Yes. And I . . . I thought maybe you could help." The leather-bound book sat nearby on the righted nightstand. She picked it up and turned it in her hands. "I know your name from an inscription. I've been trying to find you." She handed it to him, watching the reverent way he handled it, the care with which he opened its cover. "I've been trying to understand this."

"These sonnets . . ." He passed his fingers over the words. "She read them to me. I see the words, but I always hear her voice. Always."

"'Though lovers be lost," Diana said, "love shall not. And death shall have no dominion.'"

Vincent dropped the book as though it had burned him. He was on his feet and across the room before she could react.

Diana blinked in surprise. "Look, I didn't mean to—"

"You could never know how those words live in my heart." He drew in a breath. "_Burn_ in my heart." His shoulders slumped, his head falling against the shattered wall as he leaned into its support.

"You're tired," she said, half afraid he'd end up on the floor again. "You should sleep." She helped him back to the bed.

After he fell asleep, she picked up the thick white comforter and carried it over to him, making sure he was covered. Then she returned to the living room, put her gun away, and pulled the curtain across the bulletin board.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Brooke and Mouse had worked their way deep beneath the community tunnels. Mouse moved quickly, as sure-footed as his namesake and utterly confident. But as time went on, Brooke began to wonder if he really knew where he was going or if he was just guessing.

"How much further?" she asked finally. The bundle she carried was getting heavy. She longed to find Vincent and turn it over to him. And she hated it down here. It was dirty and cold and the darkness had an almost physical presence, with icy fingers that played against the back of her neck. She longed for the warm torchlight of the community tunnels.

"Close. Very close."

"Are you sure this is the right way?"

"Only way." Mouse cast her an impatient glance. "Hurry."

It was several more minutes more before Mouse called out in the darkness. "Vincent!" He raised the lantern, his head twisting from side to side as he peered into the shadows. "Vincent?"

A familiar bundle lay on a nearby stone. Brooke crossed to it and unfolded the edges. She stared at its contents and then at Mouse, worry tightening her voice and making her heart beat faster. "He hasn't been here for at least three days."

"Catherine's gone, too," Mouse said. "Like smoke." He lifted his hands, dropped them back to his sides. "Poof."

"Do you think they're together?" _Please let them be together. Let them be safe_. She didn't think she could stand it if she lost somebody else she loved.

Mouse shrugged. "Hope so."

**xXx**

**xXx**

The council gathered in Father's chambers to discuss Vincent's disappearance. Tension and worry joined the gathering, and fear seeped out of the dark corners and shadowy places.

"Vincent's gone off by himself before," William said. "Maybe he just wants to be alone." But he didn't sound convinced.

"Worse than alone," said Mouse. "And Catherine's gone, too. Gone Above. Gone alone."

"We help one another," Brooke said desperately, looking around. "That's what you taught me."

Mary shook her head. "We can't force them to accept help they don't want."

"Mouse can." Mouse pushed back from the table and stood up, a determined look in his eyes.

"Mouse is right."

Everybody stared at Father as silence fell over the gathering.

"Father, what are you saying?" Mary wasn't the only one surprised by the comment. The others were exchanging startled looks as well. Father's comment went against one of the prime precepts of the community—the right of each individual to choose his own path.

"The choice Vincent made, he made to keep us safe. To keep _Catherine_ safe. Can we do any less for him? They're missing. Surely that's the only thing that's important."

"We don't know that he's in any danger!" William insisted.

"Catherine knew," Mouse said, glaring at William. "Catherine went."

"All right!" Father said before another argument could start. "So if we're wrong, we look foolish. But if we're right—" He turned to Mouse. "You say you took a note to Vincent three days ago."

Mouse nodded. "From Elliot Burch."

"What did the message say?"

Mouse shifted from foot to foot, refusing to meet Father's eyes.

"Go on, Mouse," Brooke encouraged him. "Tell him!"

Mouse fidgeted. Looked around. Looked away. "_Compass Rose_. Meet me. Good news." The words flew from him a rush, as if by saying them quickly, he could somehow negate the wrong he'd done by reading a message intended for somebody else.

Father reached for his cane.

"Father, what are you going to do?" There was a quaver in Mary's voice as she watched him.

"Something I should've done a long time ago."

Without another word, Father left, the sound of his cane and his slow footsteps echoing down the passageways and filtering into the library long after he'd departed.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Joe strode furiously down the hall of the criminal courts building. Diana almost had to run to catch up to him. He couldn't believe what he was hearing, couldn't believe she'd be so completely unprofessional.

"Joe, I'm sorry."

"I cancelled a major deposition this morning because you promised me a progress report." He stopped for a swallow of water from the fountain by the elevator, fighting to rein in his temper.

"I know. I said I was sorry."

He swung around to glare at her. "So where is it?"

"I didn't bring it."

"You didn't _bring_ it."

"Actually . . ." She paused while a group of lawyers hurried by. "There is no progress report."

He blinked. "Wait a second. I'm confused here. You said 'Joe, I have news'."

"I'm taking myself off the case." She blurted the words in a rush, and he could only stare at her in utter disbelief.

"What are you talking about?" People were starting to cast curious glances their way. "Come in here for a second." He led her into his office and closed the door before turning to stare at her with his arms folded across his chest. "You want to tell me what the hell's going on?"

"You heard me, Joe."

She was his best hope of ever solving Cathy's case. And she'd been making progress, pulling together wisps of clues that he never would've seen himself. And now . . . "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I need some down time."

"Down time." In the middle of the most important case he'd ever worked? "Oh, that's just great."

Cathy had done this to him once before, as well. He remembered it like it was yesterday. She'd never explained it to him, and he wondered if Diana would be any different. He stalked around his desk and dropped into the chair.

"What the hell does that mean? Down time. A week ago you were telling me about tunnels and roses and this guy Vincent and how close we are, and now—"

"Now I just need to step back for a while."

He stared at her, and something in her stance, in the way she avoided meeting his eyes, made him suspicious. "You know what I think, Diana? I think you're holding something back."

"I'm not."

The words were too quick. Too definite. She knew something she wasn't telling him. But what? And why the hell wouldn't she tell him?

Joe shook his head. "I don't believe you."

For a moment, she just stared at him. Then she turned and left, slamming the door behind her. Joe cursed at the closed door. No way, he thought. No way was he going to let this happen. Cathy's murder would never end up in the cold case file. Not while he was alive. He grabbed the phone, punched out a number, and waited impatiently for the line to be answered on the other end.

**xXx**

**xXx**

When Vincent woke up, he realized at once that he was alone in the apartment. A quick glance at the windows told him it was late afternoon or early evening. He was trapped until dark. Frustrated and impatient, he prowled the empty rooms, eventually finding the note Diana had left for him in the kitchen. She would only be gone for an hour, but it would be longer than that before he could slip away to the tunnels and to Catherine.

Only Catherine wasn't in the tunnels. She was Above. Searching for him. He felt her worry like a living force within him, a restless, searching uneasiness that affected his own mood, making him pace the confined apartment in increasing frustration.

How long had she been out there? Did she know what had happened on the _Compass Rose_? Was she suffering the same agonies he'd endured when she'd been taken by Gabriel? His heart twisted at the thought, and he glanced again at the windows, willing the night to hurry.

Behind him, he heard the grind of machinery. Diana was returning from her errand. As he turned from the windows to greet her, he noticed a curtain hanging on the wall near her desk. It was an inside wall. What need was there to keep it covered? He crossed to the strip of dark fabric and pulled it aside.

And froze.

Pictures. News articles. Police reports. Catherine's face as it had looked shortly after he'd first met her. Photos of people from Below, taken . . . when? Catherine's funeral? It must have been. Shaking his head, he moved on to the crime scene photos, the mangled bodies bringing back memories best forgotten. These were people who had tried to hurt Catherine.

People who would never hurt anyone ever again.

His fingers twitched at his sides. He wanted to rip the pictures down, shred them, destroy these false images of who he was—who he and Catherine were together. Behind him, the gate slid open with a clatter, but he didn't turn around. Instead he balled his hands into fists and closed his eyes, forcing himself not to act on the destructive impulse. Breathing slowly, he concentrated on the sound of Diana's footsteps as she came toward him.

"That wall is my work." Her voice was soft. Apologetic.

He jerked the curtain closed and turned to her. "That wall is full of half-truths and shadows."

"Maybe."

"You'll discover nothing there. All you'll do is threaten the lives of those Catherine loved." The past-tense verb stuck in his throat. Lies on top of lies. Where would it end? But the falsehoods were necessary to protect Catherine, and so he forced aside the self-recrimination.

"How? How can they threaten them?" Diana lifted her hands toward him. In supplication? Explanation? He didn't know her well enough to guess. "This wall belongs to me. I don't show it to anyone." Her fingers fluttered at the curtain's edge. "I try to live inside of other people. I surround myself with them. I penetrate their minds. And sometimes, most of the time, what I see . . . it frightens me."

He gestured angrily at the hidden images. "You were trying to spare me from myself?"

She looked at him for a moment. Then she turned and pulled the curtain aside.

"All I have is a smattering of facts. A seed. Sometimes they take root in my imagination. If I'm lucky."

His voice was quiet, and some of what he felt about the things he'd done must've been in it when he responded, though he tried to keep his voice even. "But there was no imagining me."

She shook her head. "No."

They stared at each other in the deepening gloom, and Vincent wondered what she would do with the information she had. She could destroy him, and they both knew it. But would she? His instincts said that he could trust her, but only time would tell.

**xXx**

**xXx**

The sun was dropping below the horizon by the time Joe whistled for a cab to take him to Diana's apartment. He didn't like what he was about to do, didn't like the idea of abusing his power for personal gain, even if it was case related. But he couldn't let her walk away from this case. He owed it to Cathy to see that justice was served.

In seconds, one of New York's ubiquitous yellow cabs pulled to a stop beside him, and he climbed in, settling into the worn backseat.

"Federal courthouse building, please." When the taxi didn't move, Joe glanced at his watch. "Hey pal, I'm in a hurry. Could we move?"

The cabbie turned his head and held up a single finger. Before Joe could ask what was going on, the door on the other side of the cab opened and an old man climbed in beside him.

"Hey!"

"Do you mind if we share?" the man asked politely as the cab shifted into motion. He was wearing a thirty-year old suit and carrying a cane, which he tucked carefully against the door beside him.

"What the hell is this?" Crazy people weren't unusual on the streets of New York, but this was downright rude.

"Please," the man said. "Don't be alarmed."

Without answering, Joe leaned forward and tapped the cabbie on the shoulder. Just his luck he'd get a driver who didn't know his way around the city. "Hey, the courthouse is downtown, pal."

"Mr. Maxwell."

The old man's voice was tense, as though whatever he had to say was vitally important. Joe would've written him off as just another crazy New York street person, except for the fact that he knew Joe's name. Not too many crazy people bothered to read the papers.

Joe raised his voice, determined to get the cabbie's attention. "Stop this car right now!"

The stranger leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. Surprisingly, the cab pulled over almost at once. With a curse, Joe climbed out and headed back the way they'd come. Why did stuff like this always have to happen when he was in a hurry? Behind him, he heard the other door open, followed by the sounds of pursuit.

"Please, Mr. Maxwell! I know you to be a good man! Just listen to me! I have information concerning Elliot Burch!"

Joe froze. Slowly, he turned around. "Who are you?"

"I'm a friend of Catherine Chandler's."

A friend of Cathy's? This crazy old guy who'd so cavalierly helped himself to Joe's cab? How could that be possible? And yet, he was desperate for any scrap of information, even, apparently, the kind of information you could only get from crazy street people. He folded his arms across his chest. "Okay, I'm listening."

"I know where Elliot Burch was the night he disappeared."

Burch had been missing for three days. Every cop in the city was looking for him. If this guy knew something, why hadn't he phoned in a tip? "Where?"

"He was on board a ship called the _Compass Rose_."

"Are you sure?" If it was true, it would explain why nobody had been able to find Burch. In fact, if it was true, they'd probably never find him.

"Oh, yes."

"The same _Compass Rose_ that was tied up on the East river?"

"I believe so."

Joe tilted his head, staring hard at the old man. "How do you know this?"

"From Elliot Burch."

"He told you himself?" Joe's curiosity was growing by the moment. Who was this guy, and how the hell did he know Burch?

But in response to Joe's question, the stranger dropped his eyes and looked away. So he hadn't heard it from Burch. Why was he so sure, then? Was it possible he didn't know what had happened? No. The only way that'd make sense was if the guy lived in a cave somewhere. The accident was all over the news.

"The _Compass Rose_ exploded and was burned to its waterline three nights ago."

Grief and fear flooded the man's eyes. His shoulders slumped, and somehow he seemed even older as he turned and began walking away, leaning heavily on the cane. The revelation had come as a shock, apparently, and Joe felt a little guilty for dumping it on him like that.

"Who are you?" Joe hurried after him. "Is your name Vincent?"

"No." The man stopped and turned back to him, obviously startled by the question. "My name is Jacob."

"Jacob what?"

"Mr. Maxwell." Jacob took a long slow breath. "Have they recovered any bodies?"

"No, not yet."

Hope flared in Jacob's eyes. "What do you mean not yet?"

"They have divers in the water today. Look, if there's anything you can tell me about Cathy's death, you have to."

Jacob shook his head. "Believe me. I _woul_d tell you. If I could." Once more, he started toward the car.

"_Why_ can't you?" Jacob's appearance was the first solid clue Joe had had in days, and he wasn't about to let him get away so easily. "Are you afraid of someone? If you're afraid, I can help you."

But Jacob had the car door open now, and he was already sliding inside. "Please, Mr. Maxwell."

Joe watched him lean forward to tap the driver on the shoulder. As the cab pulled away, merging into New York's busy streets, Joe stared after it, utterly bewildered.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent stood by the window, watching sunset fall over the city. He itched to be away, to find Catherine and bring her safely back to the tunnels. The knowledge that she was wandering the streets of New York, frightened and alone, tore at him.

Behind him, Diana stood quietly. He sensed her eyes on his back. She had helped him, bringing him to this place of safety and watching over him while he healed. He owed her much, but could he trust her with his greatest secret? He didn't know, and yet withholding the truth from her would add another layer of deception to those that already weighed so heavily on his conscience. Slowly, he began to speak, to share what he could of his love for Catherine. It was the most he could offer.

"She led me from the darkness," he said, his voice low, his gaze turned toward the skyline beyond her window, but seeing instead those fateful events on a distant rooftop. "She sacrificed everything. And I let her die." It wasn't really a lie. He'd been so certain she was gone, so guilt-ridden over his failure to save her.

"Vincent you couldn't possibly have stopped what happened."

He didn't turn around. "There was a time when I could've stopped it. There was a connection. A bond. I _knew_ her. Her thoughts. Her fears. I could feel what she was feeling at that same moment. As _if_ we were one."

"When Catherine was in trouble you knew?"

"Yes." As he knew it now, knew that she was weak with hunger and fatigue. _Wait for me, Catherine. Just a little while longer_. He sent the silent message winging over the rooftops, wishing she could hear it. Knowing she couldn't.

"What is it?" Diana's voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he turned to her.

"I couldn't save her." Instead, it had been a stranger who had found her, a stranger who saved her life, and he wished that he could find the faceless doctor, thank him for bringing her back to him.

"Vincent, what you had with Catherine . . ." Diana came around the counter, moving into his line of sight. "I can only imagine what it would be like to love someone like that. Or to be loved like that."

He didn't answer. Instead, his eyes went back to the windows, to the growing darkness beyond. "I searched for months," he said. "But it was the heartbeat that led me to her. Faint at first."

"Was it Catherine's?"

"No." He shook his head. "It belonged to her child."

"You could actually sense the baby's heartbeat?"

He nodded. "I followed it to her. To the building where the man called Gabriel kept her." Gabriel. An angel's name for the devil's servant. "But I was too late. The child was gone. My son."

His eyes went once more to the windows. Outside, night had finally fallen. There would still be people on the streets, but he knew how to evade them, how to slip through the shadows, unnoticed. It was time to go. "I've said too much."

"Vincent, you can trust me."

"No." He turned to her. She had already taken a great risk on his behalf. He wouldn't ask more of her. "You mustn't involve yourself in this."

"I'm already involved. I was involved bef—" The door buzzer sounded, interrupting her, and she sighed. She crossed to the small panel beside the gated elevator and pushed a button. "Hello."

A male voice responded. Distorted and metallic. "It's me. I have to talk to you."

Diana glanced over at Vincent, then back at the intercom. "Joe, I don't want to do this again."

"Diana, let me up, because I'm not leaving until I see you."

Vincent could see her frustration, but he made no move to reassure her. Instead, he waited for her to make the decision he knew she must. He would leave while she was gone. There would be no way for her to follow him.

"Okay," she said, with a sigh. "I'll be right down." She turned back to Vincent. "I have to do this. But I won't be long." She reached to open the gate for the elevator.

"Diana." He waited for her to turn back. "I'll never forget your kindness."

Seconds later, she was gone, and Vincent opened the window.

**xXx**

**xXx**

It seemed to Joe as if it took hours for the lift to make its way down to him, and longer still for Diana to step out, her face tight and irritated. He started talking before the door slid open all the way, the words tumbling out in an excited rush.

"This city is full of crazies, right? I mean we both know it."

She nodded, but she was looking back toward the lift as if she was planning her escape route.

"I was on my way here, and I whistled for a cab, right?" His excitement translated itself to nervous energy that carried him back and forth across the tiny lobby. Two steps. Turn. Two steps. Turn.

"So?" Her eyes followed him, but her arms were folded across her chest, her legs braced.

"So one of them stops right away. Pulls up right beside me. I get in and tell the cabbie I want to come here. Only he just sits there." Two steps. Turn. Two steps. "I don't get it. I'm in a hurry, you know? I figure maybe he didn't hear me get in or something. So I say something to him." Joe shook his head, remembering the cabbie's odd behavior. "He just holds up his hand, you know, as if to tell me to wait a minute."

He stopped pacing and faced her. She'd want back on the case when she heard this. She wouldn't be able to resist the adrenalin rush. Cops were like bloodhounds that way. "Then this strange old guy jumps in the back of the cab with me." He watched her eyes, looking for the excitement that would blossom when he dropped his bombshell. "And he told me Burch was on the _Compass Rose_ the night he disappeared!"

Joe had once made his dad a paperweight out of clay. He'd spent weeks on it, and by the time Christmas finally came, he'd been beside himself with excitement waiting for his dad to open it. His dad had given him the same puzzled look then that Diana was giving him now.

"What do you want me to say, Joe?"

Utterly deflated, he stared at her. She'd been living with Cathy's case for weeks, had gone through hell trying to find answers. He finally brought her some solid information and she reacted like this?

His voice rose as anger and frustration took over. "I want you to say that's amazing news! Show some curiosity, maybe! Say, 'I was wrong to drop out'!" He glared at her. "How can you ignore something like this? I don't understand."

"You don't have to understand."

"No. You're wrong. I do." He'd hoped to entice her back to the case with the information he'd brought, but her lack of interest forced his hand. "You know, I got to thinking about our little discussion this morning. And the more I think about it, the more unacceptable it becomes."

She gazed steadily at him, apparently unmoved by his outburst. "Explain that to me."

"I'm ordering you back on the case."

In response, she backed into the elevator and pulled the gate closed. "You can't do that."

"I'm the district attorney," Joe said, grabbing the gate and yanking it open again. "And I can do a hell of a lot more than order you back on the case!" He hated this, hated using his position against her. It went against everything he believed in. But he would do anything to solve this case—even if it meant risking the nebulous friendship that had been building between them. Grimly, he shoved his guilt aside and glared at Diana.

"Are you threatening me?" Anger flashed behind her eyes, along with shock and disbelief. But he also saw a hint of disappointment. She'd thought better of him. Hell, ordinarily he expected better of himself. But he was a desperate man, and desperate men tended to do desperate things.

"Look. Something is going on right here in front of us. And I think you're the only one who knows what that is. And I'm not gonna let that go." He turned away. He would leave her to think it over.

"I'm calling the commissioner."

Damn. It would've been better for them both if she hadn't said that.

He turned around, meeting her eyes. "I spoke to him about an hour ago." He crossed back to her. "Look, lady. I don't care if you hate my guts. But you take whatever you're holding back, and you weigh that against your job and your pension. And then you call me in the morning."

He yanked the gate closed and stalked away, too angry to care about her reaction to his ultimatum. She'd either _do_ her job, or she'd lose it. Her choice.


	21. Chapter 21

It wasn't hard to find Catherine. Her anxiety was a powerful thing, drawing him to her almost without thought. She had drifted back to the park, where she wandered, waiflike, among the towering trees. Her cloak was stained, its edges torn and dirty—a bedraggled length of wilted fabric that dragged at her bent shoulders. He watched her for a moment in silence, his heart heavy. This sadness, too, could be laid at Gabriel's feet.

Softly, he called her name, the syllables floating across the distance between them on a gentle night breeze.

"Catherine."

She spun around, and he had only a moment to see the relief in her eyes before she launched herself into his arms. He caught her, lifting her off her feet as she whispered his name against his neck, her voice rough with exhaustion. He closed his eyes and held her close, desperately grateful to whatever forces had watched over her in his absence.

"I'm here," he said. "I'm here." He rubbed her back, his hand moving rhythmically up and down its slim length.

"I was so afraid."

"I know. I'm sorry."

When she pulled back, he saw the deep shadows under her eyes. Had she slept at all while he'd been gone? Had she eaten?

She touched his bruised face with a gentle fingertip. "You were on the _Compass Rose_, weren't you?"

He nodded. "Elliot sent me a note. He asked me to meet him."

"Elliot . . ."

"He saved my life, Catherine." He put his hand on her shoulder and wished he could spare her this fresh pain. "But it cost him his own."

"No . . ." She stared at him, her eyes wide with horror. "No . . ." He took her in his arms again, feeling her body shake beneath the weight of her grief. She had cared a great deal for Elliot, he knew, and though Vincent had sometimes envied the other man, he too felt the loss deeply.

They stood together for several minutes, hidden in the little grove of trees, far from street lamps and prying eyes. Vincent held her close, supporting her in her grief and ignoring the discomfort of his own injuries. At the moment, her needs were greater than his own.

Finally, she straightened and he let her go, his eyes searching her face as he sensed her growing weakness.

"I felt it, Vincent. I felt the explosion." She shuddered. "I came Above to find you." Her gaze drifted east, toward the river and the blackened remains of the _Compass Rose. _"Something drew me to the cemetery." She turned back to him, and he saw the confusion in her eyes. "Only you weren't there."

"Someone found me."

"Who?"

She swayed as the adrenalin and worry that had carried her through his absence began to ebb, and he took her hand, guiding her back toward the safety of the tunnels. "Her name is Diana. She's with the police. She's been investigating your case."

"The police . . ." Catherine stopped and turned to him. "Vincent—"

"I know." He nodded and tugged gently, starting her moving again. "I was afraid, too. But I've come to believe that we can trust her."

"You told her I'm alive?" Fresh concern in her voice, Catherine stared at him.

"No." He remembered those hours in Diana's apartment, and the difficult decision he'd made. "That's a risk I'm not yet prepared to take."

"How did she know where to find you?"

"I don't know." He thought about Diana, about what she had told him of her work. "She has an amazing mind, Catherine. In some ways, she reminds me of you."

"But if _she_ could find you . . ." Catherine let the sentence trail off unfinished, but Vincent knew what she was thinking. If Diana could track him down, others might, too.

They had reached the tunnels, and Vincent looked around, making sure they hadn't been followed before leading her inside.

"I believe our secret is safe," he said as the barrier slid closed behind them. "And after Elliot's death … she may be our only hope."

Catherine stumbled, and he caught her, his arm going quickly around her waist. "You're tired," he said. "I'll walk you to your chamber. After you've rested and eaten, we will speak again."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Father couldn't bring himself to stay away from the Chamber of the Falls for very long, but even the familiar music of tumbling water gave little comfort as the hours continued to pass without news.

"Father."

At first Father thought he'd imagined the distinctive voice, but when he turned, Vincent was watching him from the chamber entrance. He looked tired, and his hair was matted and dirty, but he was alive. Ignoring his cane, Father got to his feet and pulled his son into his arms.

"Thank God you're alive." He stepped back, his arms falling to his sides. "Where have you been?"

"Healing."

The single word told Father both everything and nothing at all. "For days I've been wrestling with my worst fears. Trying to prepare myself."

Vincent bowed his head. "I'm sorry to have put you through so much worry."

"Have you seen Catherine?" Father sat back down, and Vincent settled beside him. "She left the tunnels at about the time you disappeared. I assumed she went looking for you."

"I found her in the park. She's resting now." He looked out at the waterfall, and there was sadness in his voice when he continued. "But Elliot Burch is dead."

"Yes, I know." Father said, his voice grave. "How did it happen?"

"He almost betrayed me. But in the end, he sacrificed his life for mine."

For a long moment, they were silent, lost in thought.

"There's something about the water," Father said at last. "The sound of the water. It drew me here when you were gone." He turned to Vincent, marveling at the man he'd grown into, at the difficulties he'd overcome with such nobility, such strength. "I never dreamed of you having a child. But now . . . so many things seem possible."

"One day he'll be raised here. In the world you created."

"Have you discussed it with Catherine?"

Vincent shook his head, and Father sensed his son's distance as his thoughts went elsewhere. "Not yet."

"Will you ask her to marry you?" The idea no longer unsettled Father the way it once would have.

The look Vincent gave him was thoughtful. "Perhaps."

Father suspected the idea of marriage hadn't occurred to Vincent until now, and he realized that in some ways he had himself to blame for that. He'd made mistakes with Vincent, mistakes that, if not for Catherine, might have cost his son a lifetime of happiness.

He couldn't change the past, but he _could_ do something about the future.

"I would be honored to have Catherine for a daughter."

Vincent leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Father."

Father said nothing further on the subject. What Vincent and Catherine decided about their future was up to them.

First, though, the child must be found.

"I know I've made things difficult for you of late." He laid his hand on Vincent's arm. "But these past days I've come to understand what it is to lose a child." He shook his head, his eyes drawn once more to the water. "Let nothing interfere with your search, Vincent. Nothing."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Diana sat on the couch, facing Mark's anger with a steady calm that belied her churning stomach. He'd been running his hands through his hair, so that now it stood in unruly spikes, and his eyes were dark with pain and disappointment.

"I feel like I've been lied to all this time."

It was true that she'd occasionally kept things from him, but she'd never been blatantly dishonest. She forced a vivid memory of Vincent aside. There was no way she could tell Mark about him. "Lied to how?"

"Lied to. Made to believe one thing when something else was true. You used to talk about it all the time, remember? Growth? Growing together?"

"I remember." She'd been full of dreams then—naive, idealistic, girlish dreams with little basis in the harsh realities of life.

"Yeah, well I really thought you meant it. I bought it. You know, find someone. Start a life."

She cringed from the bitterness in his voice. "It _is_ what I want." Just not on his terms.

"No you don't," he said. "Not with me, anyway."

"Mark—"

"It's okay." He gazed bitterly at her. "I'll get over it."

"You're making this more difficult than it needs to be."

"Well, I can't make it easy for you." He shook his head. "Took me this long to get the hint."

"I wasn't trying to give you a hint."

He knelt beside her. "You gave me these glimpses. Wonderful little glimpses. But you never let me come in. It was like somehow the shade always got pulled."

"I'm sorry." She really was. She'd never meant to hurt him. But no matter how hard she tried, she knew she'd never be able to be the person he needed. The person he deserved.

"You say that too often. 'Sorry' wears thin after a while."

A surge of frustration straightened her spine. "What would you like me to say?"

"Nothing. I guess I came to do all the talking." He straightened and walked over to hit the button for the elevator. Turning back, he looked at her, and she knew he was waiting for her to beg him to stay.

But she didn't say anything. There was nothing left to say.

**xXx**

**xXx**

The candles flickered gently in the cool tunnel air, their golden light warming Father as he turned the pages of his journal. So much had happened in the past year, so many tragedies and challenges. Would their small community ever be at peace again?

At a faint sound in the doorway, and he looked up, startled.

"Peter! What a surprise!" Father rose to meet him, but Peter waved him back down.

"Jacob, my friend. How are you?"

Peter looked tired, but so did they all, lately.

"I'm doing well, thank you. And you? How is your practice?"

"Busy." Peter sighed. "Actually, I'm thinking of retiring. I'm getting too old for this."

Father chuckled. "I'll believe that when I see it."

Peter had brought his briefcase with him to the tunnels. He'd never done that before, and now Father watched curiously as he opened it and lifted out a slim folder.

"Is Vincent around?" Peter set the folder on the table. "I need to speak with both of you."

There was something in Peter's voice that made Father uneasy. He nodded. "I believe he's in his chamber. I'll call him." He rose from his chair and crossed to the steam pipe. After tapping out the brief message, he turned back. "Can I get you anything while we wait? Tea, maybe?"

"No, thank you. I can't stay long." Peter hesitated for a moment. "How is Vincent?"

Father considered the question, wondering how much to say. "He's . . . recovering."

"That's a relief. I was worried—"

"Father? You wished to see me?" Vincent stood at the top of the steps. Sometimes he still surprised Father with how quickly and silently he could move.

Peter crossed to shake Vincent's hand. "Hello, Vincent."

"Peter." Vincent shot a questioning glance at Father who shook his head. "It's good to see you again."

"I only wish the circumstances were different," Peter said cryptically as he sat down.

"Oh?" Father asked. "What circumstances are those?"

Peter looked from one man to the other, took a deep breath, and gestured at the papers he'd set on the table. "Catherine's will."

"Catherine's—"

"—will. Yes." Peter nodded somberly.

Father was stunned into silence. This was a complication that had never occurred to him—to either of them, judging by Vincent's expression. Father played for time, stalling while he tried to decide what to do. "What about her will?"

"She appointed me executor," Peter said, sorrow in his eyes, "because of my connections with the world Above." He took a breath, his eyes meeting Vincent's. "But with the exception of a couple of endowments, she's left everything to you."

"No." Vincent's soft exclamation resonated with shock. "No."

"I know this is painful for you," Peter said, "but I witnessed the signing myself."

"But . . ." Father struggled to comprehend the enormity of what he was hearing. "As far as the world Above knows, Vincent doesn't even exist."

"Actually," Peter said, "he does."

Stunned, Father leaned forward. "How is that possible?"

Peter looked vaguely uncomfortable as he shuffled the papers in front of him without meeting Father's eyes. "When John first brought Vincent to the tunnels, everybody was so busy trying to keep him alive that there was no time to think about the future." He glanced up, looking from Father to Vincent and back again. "I filed the birth certificate myself," he said. "At the time, it was all I could think of to do to help. Then, when the papers came, I put them away. I felt a little silly, actually. I never thought he'd need them, living down here." He shook his head. "Apparently, I was wrong. I have it and his social security card right here."

He sorted through the papers in the folder and selected two, handing them to Vincent. "I'm sorry," he said, "I should have said something sooner."

Father looked at Vincent, at the shock on his face as he stared at the papers. What must he be feeling? Suddenly he wasn't just a denizen of a secret world, part man, part something else; he was a citizen of the United States.

"Anyway," Peter went on, apparently unaware of the depth of Vincent's shock, "Catherine set it up so that Vincent would never have to worry about taxes, and he can send a proxy to make withdrawals, so there shouldn't be any problems." He picked up the rest of the papers and offered them to Vincent, who backed away as though from a venomous snake. Peter gave him a sympathetic look.

"It's quite a large estate, Vincent. Handled carefully, it should be enough to sustain the entire community for a long time." He took a pen from his pocket. "I know this is painful," he said, "so if you'll just sign those, I'll be on my way."

"Father, have you seen—?" Three pairs of eyes swiveled in Catherine's direction as she froze at the top of the steps. "Peter!"

Peter's face went white, and for an instant Father feared he might faint. "Catherine?"

She hurried down the steps. She was dressed in clean tunnel clothes, her hair shining against the collar of a thick sweater. Swiftly, she crossed to Peter's side and bent to hug him.

He was smiling when she straightened, his eyes bright. "I don't understand," he said, "I went to your funeral!"

"I know." She knelt beside his chair and took his hand in hers. "And I'm sorry we misled you, but it was necessary."

"Why?" Peter looked from Catherine to Father and Vincent. "Somebody tell me I'm not about to see a white rabbit run through here with a pocket watch."

Vincent crossed to Catherine, taking her arm to support her as she got to her feet. "It isn't a dream," he said. "We've kept Catherine hidden to protect her."

"To protect her? From what?"

Father's own shock at learning that Catherine was alive was still fresh in his mind. "I believe we'll be needing that tea after all, Vincent. Perhaps you'd better send a message to William."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Diana sat at her computer. Her loft was silent and deeply shadowed, lit by only a single lamp. She hesitated for a moment, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. With a deep sigh, she began to type.

_A week has passed. And nothing. Still no sign. I dreamt of him again last night. A strange dream. I held his face close to mine, but he couldn't see me. I spoke to him, but he couldn't hear me. I was with him. But he was alone. Impressions. Am I finally losing my mind? Probably. But his sadness has carried over into me. In these last few days especially. _

She saved the file, then turned off the computer and stood up. Her eyes were drawn to the bulletin board, and she stared at the collection of photos and articles that seemed so different now that she'd finally met Vincent. He was right. Those images and words weren't who Vincent was, they were only shadows. Phantasms and half-truths.

One by one, she took down the bits of paper—the photos, the police reports, the newspaper articles and interview notes. She placed each item in a folder on her desk. When the board was clear, she turned away from it and closed the folder, putting it away in the cabinet and weighing it down with the graffiti etched slab of concrete she'd found in the tunnels. Then, with an air of finality, she latched the cabinet door.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Two pots of tea later, Peter rested his clasped hands beneath his chin, his mind reeling as he tried to absorb it all.

"You're sure Gabriel still has the baby?" He directed the question to Vincent, who was standing by the stairs, leaning against the railing.

"I'm certain of it."

"But you have no idea where?" A child. Vincent and Catherine had a child. It was unthinkable. Impossible. And miraculous.

"I only know that he is near."

"How can I help?"

Vincent shook his head. "Do not involve yourself. It's too dangerous."

Catherine put her hand on Peter's arm. "He's right. Gabriel has killed before. He won't hesitate to do it again."

"Surely you don't expect me to just do nothing." These people were like family to him. There had to be some way he could help.

"I'm afraid it's all we _can_ do for now," Father said.

"What about this?" Peter tapped the estate documents. "And there's a death certificate on file at the courthouse. Should I start the paperwork to get it reversed?"

"No," said Catherine. "Gabriel knows I can identify him. If he learns I'm alive he'll stop at nothing to find me."

"Do you intend to stay down here permanently, then?" Peter looked from her to Vincent and back again.

"I don't know," Catherine admitted. "We haven't talked about it." She didn't look at Vincent as she said it, and Peter didn't envy them the complicated situation they'd found themselves in. By all accounts, Cathy's pregnancy had been a complete surprise, and events since then had been chaotic. Still, he knew how much they loved each other, and he sent up a silent prayer that everything would work out in the end. They'd been through enough.

"You're welcome here," Father said to Catherine, "for as long as you wish to stay."

She cast him a grateful smile, and Vincent crossed to stand behind her, his hands settling on her shoulders. Peter watched her reach up to wrap her fingers around his. Something had changed between the two of them, something subtle and indefinable, but significant. He wondered what it was.

"The estate sale has already been scheduled," he said, returning his attention to the issue at hand. "If I cancel it . . ."

Catherine nodded her understanding. "It'll look suspicious. When is it?"

"Two weeks. Do you think this will all be over by then?"

"I don't know. We don't even know where he is, yet." Catherine tilted her head to look up at Vincent, who shook his head slightly.

"Well." Peter tucked the papers back in the folder and picked up his briefcase. "I'll be in touch with you in a few days. Maybe we'll know more by then. In the meantime, promise you'll contact me if there's anything I can do. Anything at all." He stood up. "Cathy, I can't tell you how happy I am to find you alive and well."

Catherine hugged him. "Thank you, Peter. For everything. And I'm sorry we deceived you."

He waved the apology away. "I'll expect an invitation to the naming ceremony."

"You can count on it," Catherine said, smiling.

Vincent put his arm around Catherine's waist, and she leaned into him, and Peter couldn't help thinking that they might have been any other couple—young and in love, and with a bright future ahead of them. His greatest hope was that they would finally have their dream. If anybody deserved to find happiness, they did.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Diana was tired of waiting for Vincent to come to her. Her dreams about him were waking her up at night, and during the day she couldn't concentrate on anything because she kept remembering the sadness in his eyes and the way his gaze had been drawn, again and again, to the windows. She needed to see him.

As soon as it was dark she pulled on her jacket, grabbed a flashlight, and headed outside. _If Mohammed won't come to the mountain_, t_he mountain will just have to go to Mohammed_.

Central Park felt different at night, the deserted trails deeply shadowed, the outstretched branches of the trees somehow menacing. She was a trained police officer, proficient in three kinds of hand to hand combat, and yet she was still uneasy as she hurried along the familiar paths. At the tunnel entrance she looked around, checking to make sure nobody would see her slip inside.

A large figure sat huddled on the floor just beyond the bend. That so noble a man as Vincent should be reduced to living like this, dressed in rags and relying on the city's drainage system for shelter, seemed almost a crime against nature.

"Vincent?" She approached cautiously. She didn't want to frighten him. "Vincent."

The figure moved without warning, throwing aside a ragged blanket and leaping up to face her. It wasn't Vincent. This man was coarse and hard-edged, with cruelty in his eyes and a twisted smile on his thick lips. Before she could turn away, she heard footsteps behind her. He wasn't alone.

"Okay, guys." She took a step backward, lifting her hands to show that she was unarmed. The stupidity of that particular fact wasn't lost on her. How could she have been so foolish as to enter the park at night without her weapon? What was it about Vincent that made her forget her customary caution? "Look. I was just down here looking for a buddy of mine."

The man she'd mistaken for Vincent only grinned more widely. She tried to make a break for it, feinting left and then dodging right, hoping to evade capture, but it didn't work. Somebody grabbed her from behind, catching her wrists and twisting them behind her back hard enough to make her cry out in pain. A savage kick to the back of her knees knocked her legs out from under her, and she found herself on her face in the dirt with a heavy knee jammed into her back. The smell of unwashed bodies wafted over her.

"Give me the gun." The man on her back shifted, grinding his knee against her spine as he turned to one of his comrades. "Give me the gun!"

Out of the corner of her eye, Diana saw the glint of steel. She felt the barrel press against the back of her neck, heard the hammer click back. She squeezed her eyes shut, her heart beating frantically in her chest as she struggled against her attacker and tried to muster a scream from a throat clogged with fear. This wasn't how she'd pictured her death.

A sudden fierce roar startled her, and for a confused instant she thought it was the subway. But it couldn't have been, not in a drainage tunnel. Somebody yelled, and she heard the sounds of battle, and then the weight disappeared from her back. There was one final scream, a sickening thud, and then silence. She rolled to her feet and turned to see Vincent watching her, his hands hanging loosely at his sides.

"So," he said quietly, "now you see."

She brushed the dirt from her pants, catching her breath, buying time while she tried to make sense of what had just happened. She avoided looking at her would-be attackers, pretty sure she knew what she'd see anyway. "You saved my life."

"You should have stayed away." He was angry, though whether at her or at himself, she didn't know.

"I couldn't."

He turned away, apparently prepared to leave her alone now that she was safe.

"Vincent, it's not your fault!" She hurried after him. "You can't continue alone in this!"

"I'm not alone."

She froze. "What do you mean?"

He stopped and turned, and she could tell by the look in his eyes that he hadn't meant to say it. For a long moment, he stared at her in silence.

"Vincent, you have to trust me."

"Yes," he said at last, "maybe we do."

It took a moment for the pronoun to register. "We?"

"You held my life in your hands," he said. "You could have turned me in, could have ended everything. But you didn't." He stepped closer, watching her carefully. "Why?"

"Because you were right," she said. "Those news articles and crime reports . . . what was it you called them? Shadows of the truth?"

He nodded.

"What you did, you did out of love. There's no crime in that."

Something of the tension in him seemed to slip away at her words. Still, it was several long seconds before he spoke again.

"Catherine is alive."

She thought at first that she'd misheard him. "What did you say?"

"Catherine is alive. And safe."

Shock reverberated through her. "But that's not possible! The coroner said she'd lost too much blood!" But he'd qualified the statement, saying that if Catherine had received immediate medical attention she might have survived her injury. Had Vincent somehow accomplished a miracle?

"Nevertheless . . ." Vincent watched her, keen-eyed, his body poised for action, and she sensed that he was waiting to see how she would react to his astonishing news.

"So she's been here all along?" Had they duped her, tricked her into wasting all this time chasing shadows?

"No." He shook his head. "Only since the hospital. Before that—" He paused, his eyes dropping away from hers. "Gabriel had her."

So the case was legitimate, or at least parts of it. For some reason, she was relieved. "And the baby?"

"Gabriel still has our son." Vincent turned, leaning his back against the wall. "There was a time, shortly after Catherine disappeared, when I found out where she was. I tried to go to her. To rescue her." He shook his head, his gaze distant as he remembered. "I was too late. But . . ." Taking a deep breath, he met her eyes. "Gabriel must have seen me. I believe it's why he kept her alive until after the child was born."

"Only she didn't die."

"No. But I didn't know that when I carried her home." There was remembered pain in his voice.

"How did you find out?" She couldn't begin to imagine what it had been like for him, first believing that the love of his life had died in his arms, and then discovering that, through some incredible miracle, she was alive.

"When she was in the hospital, my sense of her began to return. Somebody chased her. Threatened her. And I . . . felt her fear."

"Where is she now?"

"Safe. With friends."

Somehow she knew he wouldn't tell her more than that.

"Vincent, you have to let me help you. Both of you." She felt as though she'd slipped into some kind of alternate reality. The case had turned inside out, and she was no longer sure what was right and what was wrong. She only knew that a grievous injustice had been done.

Vincent shook his head. "No."

"Then you'll fail." She was angry again, frustrated that he insisted on pushing her away. "What chance do you have in a world where you can't even show your face? I can help you!"

"I cannot accept that responsibility."

"You're not responsible for me." She hated it when men assumed she needed protecting. It was a mindset she'd fought against all her life, especially as a cop.

"You don't understand," Vincent said, his own voice rising now. "Catherine is my world! I would give my life for her. But I could not protect her from Gabriel!" He paused, and she heard a distant clank of metal on metal. He tilted his head, listening. When he went on, his voice was softer. "How could I hope to protect you?"

"I'm not Catherine."

"Diana . . ."

"You _need_ me." She planted her feet and glared defiantly at him.

"No!"

"Please, Vincent."

"You must forget me." He said it fiercely, almost desperately.

She shook her head. It wasn't even an option. "I can't."

"Then remember me as you would a dream."

He turned then, and left her standing there staring after him as he disappeared into the shadows.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Catherine waited for him just around the bend. She'd heard his conversation with Diana, and now, as Vincent approached her, she tried to decipher his thoughts.

"Maybe she could help us," she said as he reached her side and closed the barrier, shutting off the tunnel community from the outside world.

He fell into step beside her. "Perhaps."

"And yet you sent her away. Why?"

"Catherine, this battle is between Gabriel and me, now. It must be."

"No," she said. "You're wrong." She stopped and turned, putting her hand flat against his chest and forcing him to stop, too. "It's _our_ battle. And Diana can help. I'm certain of it."

"You would risk her life?"

"No," she said. "But I would give her the right to choose whether _she_ wanted to risk it."

"How can she possibly help us against a man like Gabriel?"

"She's a detective, Vincent. She has access to resources we couldn't hope to reach."

"And if something happens to her?" Vincent asked. "Could you live with that?"

We're talking about our son," she said, glancing back the way they had come. "I'll do whatever I have to."

He reached for her hand, and they walked on in silence. They were almost back to her chamber before he sighed and nodded. The decision was made.

They would accept Diana's help.


	22. Chapter 22

An envelope, her name scrawled across it in elegant script, lay on the balcony when Diana stepped out to check the weather the next morning. She was a light sleeper, alert to the smallest sound, yet she hadn't heard a thing. Puzzled, she tore off the end of the envelope and drew out the single folded sheet of heavy paper.

_Diana - _

_This is all we have to point us to Gabriel. It may be our son's only hope. We give it to you with our trust. Vincent _

We. Our. She shook her head. It was going to take her a while to get used to the idea that Catherine was alive. Would she ever meet the woman who had such a hold on Vincent's heart? Diana turned the paper over in her hand, examining its texture while she considered its implications. When she'd seen him last, he'd been adamant that she stay away. What had changed his mind?

There was something else inside the envelope. She tilted it up, squeezing the corners to force it open.

A heavy gold ring dropped into her hand.

**xXx**

**xXx**

_He walks alone in a land of shadows. Fog swirls around his feet, dampening the hem of his cloak. A thick canopy of leaves interrupts his view of the sky, and water drips heavily onto his head and shoulders. He's in a hurry. He pushes through the underbrush, ignoring the brambles that catch and tear at his clothes as he passes, breathing deeply of the heavy, rain-scented air. There's somewhere he needs to be. Something he must do. _

_A flash of color catches his eye. He's almost missed it in his rapid passage through the trees. He turns. Looks back. A scarlet flower glows in a stray moonbeam. He stares at it for a moment, puzzled by its incongruous brilliance in this dreary place. _

_He hears thunder and looks up to see thick, angry clouds building in the sky. Jagged lightning flashes at their edges, and all at once his throat feels dry and parched. Water trickles down a rock wall in front of him, pools for a moment, and then spills to the ground. He scoops handfuls of it to his mouth. Feels it slide, icy cold, down his throat. _

_In the distance, an infant cries out. He snaps his head up, listening, and then he's rushing toward the sound with long, frantic strides, his hands raised to thrust the grasping branches aside. Just ahead he sees an outline. _

_A human form, cloaked and faceless, watches him in silence._

"Vincent?"

Catherine's voice called him back to himself, and he shook his head, scattering the images like droplets of water. Above them, the orchestra played the final haunting notes of a Chopin nocturne.

"What is it?" she asked. She'd been curled up against him with her head resting on his shoulder while they listened, but now she had her head up, and there was concern in her gaze.

"Images. Sounds. A . . . feeling." He dropped his eyes, unwilling to let her see the fear the images had sparked. "I heard him crying."

Her grip tightened on his arm, and he looked down at her hand, only now recognizing her touch. He covered her fingers with his own.

"The baby?" There was eagerness in her voice, and a desperate need for reassurance.

"Yes."

He dropped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes as the orchestra started its next piece, but it was several long seconds before he felt Catherine relax against him.

"At least we know he's still alive," she said.

He nodded, but he didn't tell her that their son's cry had seemed weak.

Something was terribly wrong.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Diana knew nothing about fine jewelry, but she did know New York City, and it didn't take her long to find somebody who could tell her about the ring. It was a small shop, a family-owned business well on its way to a century of service. The owner was an elderly gentleman, but it was his son who stood before Diana now, the ring in his hands, a jeweler's loupe attached to his glasses like a third eye.

"Can you tell me anything about it?" Diana itched to grab it back. It was their only clue to the man who had Vincent and Catherine's son, and if anything should happen to it . . .

"Where'd you get this ring?" The jeweler's touch was delicate and reverent; a fact which, by itself, told Diana the ring was probably quite valuable.

"From a friend."

"Hmm . . ." He set it gently on a piece of velvet. "Let me get my father."

The man who came out to meet her had gray hair and a receding hairline. He wore dark suspenders, gray dress slacks, and a white shirt with a conservative blue tie. Jeweler's loupe in place, he picked up the ring, examining it carefully.

"What is it you want to know about this ring?" he asked. His voice was more authoritative than his son's, but his touch on the ring was no less gentle.

"Anything you can tell me."

He turned it between his fingers as he talked. "This ring is very old."

"How old?"

"Five hundred, maybe six hundred years. The metal is twenty-four carat gold. Stone is a black opal." He put it down and reached up to flip the loupe out of his way. "The craftsmanship is rare."

"Why?"

"Why?" He smiled slightly. "Because it has lasted for five centuries. What've you made today that will last for five centuries?"

"That's a very good point," she admitted, a little embarrassed. "What does the inscription say?"

Pulling the loupe back down, he examined the ring again. He shook his head. "I could read it fifty years ago maybe. Today . . . no." He glanced back up at her. "If you'd like to leave it with me—"

"No, I don't think so." She took it back. "But if you could recommend somebody that I could go to, I'd appreciate it."

He turned to his son, who'd been waiting at his side. "Mike Cullen's card. Get one for the lady." The younger man nodded respectfully and disappeared into the office. His father turned back to Diana. "Are you considering selling the ring?"

"No, I'm not." She took the card, giving it a cursory glance before tucking it in her pocket. "Thank you."

"If you do," the jeweler said, "give me a call."

Diana nodded, already halfway to the door. She knew little more now than she had before, which shouldn't have surprised her as much as it did. Why had she thought the ring was the key, the clue that would finally crack this case wide open? Only Tolkein could give a ring _that_ much power.

**xXx**

**xXx**

The next time the vision came, Vincent was alone. Anxiety, formless and sinister, had made sleep impossible, so he'd resorted to reading, looking for solace in the familiar words of a favorite poet.

But then the words faded from his sight, replaced by another waking dream.

_He recognizes the shadows and the fog, remembers the dampness on his cloak and face. But the place is different somehow. He looks around. The leaves are gone. Nothing green survives. And it's darker, the moonlight completely hidden behind towering clouds that flash with jagged lightning. Thunder cracks and roars over his head, and then there's another brilliant flash, the thunder following so closely it's as if the lightning itself is speaking to him. Warning him. Once again, he pushes through the underbrush, through the branches that tear at his cloak. _

_Urgency lends speed to his steps, and he hurries forward until once again he sees the wall. Hears the trickle of water. Feels the desperate thirst. He bends to drink, cupping his hands, but before the water reaches his lips he stops, staring in horror as the stream turns red. The color of blood._

_A child cries out in the darkness—a piteous, desolate sound in the storm-tossed night. A lost sound. Vincent turns toward it, searching for its source. He's running now, the cries growing louder and more desperate with each stride. Something catches his eye, and he turns to see a shadowy figure with a crossbow. Before he can react, he feels a searing heat as an arrow pierces his chest. He yanks it out and throws it aside. Pain engulfs him, and he groans, staring at his attacker. _

_The archer disappears in a sweep of fabric, and the child's cries grow louder still. He searches desperately as the wails mingle with the thunder, the lightning flashes, and blood seeps from the wound in his chest. A lean figure watches him through a gap in the bushes, faceless and impassive. As he approaches, it turns, walks away. He tries to force his way through the brambles after it, but the way is blocked, and the child is crying, and the lightning flashes again . . . _

_Thunder explodes over his head, and he roars his frustration to the sky . . . _

And found himself alone in his chamber as the single candle flickered and went out.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Diana was asleep when they came for her. She'd been up late studying the ring, trying to decipher its inscription. Careful examination in good light had finally revealed one of the words. _Veritas_. She'd looked it up in her old paperback dictionary. It meant truth.

She'd fallen asleep with the word repeating itself in her mind. _Veritas. Veritas. Veritas …_

When she awoke, it was dark in the room, and she lay still, wondering what had pulled her from her dreams. When something heavy clattered against the roof, she was instantly alert, and she grabbed her gun before slipping to the floor. Adrenalin rushed through her veins. Fight or flight?

She heard them come in. There were at least three of them, men who talked to each other in low voices as they searched for her. Too many to take on alone. Flight, then. Crouched in the kitchen now, shielded from them by the cabinets, she listened to their movements. There wasn't much time. The loft wasn't very big. They'd find her in seconds. She eased the window open, thankful when it didn't squeal a protest, and climbed out onto the roof.

Keeping low, she hurried across the roof, crossed its peak and edged down the other side. In the street below, she heard voices calling out to each other. She dropped to her stomach and peered over the edge in time to see a car drive by at the end of the alley. It moved slowly. Get-away vehicle? Innocent passerby?

Or someone else looking for her.

To her left, a grappling hook clung to the edge of the building, rope dangling from it like the tail of an abandoned kite. She tucked the gun in her waistband and gathered it up, holding it in her arms while she searched for a safe place to climb down. She settled on the edge of the roof that bordered the narrow alley. It was the least exposed location.

She set the hook against the wall and risked a quick check below. All clear. She dropped the rope and slipped over the side, starting down hand over hand, the rough fibers tearing at her skin. Halfway down, she heard the low purr of a car engine. She froze, holding desperately to the rope, shoulder muscles burning with the strain. Voices called to each other from below, and above her she heard the sounds of people searching her apartment, looking for her. Who were they? What did they want?

Instinct told her they were Gabriel's men, though she had no idea what had led them to her. None of that mattered now though, as she prayed her arms wouldn't give way completely and drop her, broken and bleeding, to the unforgiving pavement below.

Finally, the voices moved away, the car turned the corner, and she was alone again. She slid down the rope, ignoring the pain, intent only on making it down in one piece. She hit the ground and broke into a run as voices called the alarm over her head. She'd been spotted. At the end of the alley, a cab paused under a street lamp. She sprinted toward it, not daring to look back, ducking and weaving to avoid the gunshots that rang out behind her. Scrambling into the car, she slammed the door.

"Lady, what are you doing?" The cabbie jerked around to look at her, surprise and suspicion in his face.

"Go!" she yelled. "Get the hell out of here!"

Before he could react more shots rang out, and he slumped over in his seat, blood splattering the windshield. Diana cursed. Opening the door, she leaned out, using it as a barrier while she fired back at her pursuers. They hadn't known she had a gun, and she heard them shouting warnings to each other as she shoved the dead man aside and scrambled into the driver's seat. Throwing the car into gear, she slammed her foot on the gas.

Her pursuers started firing again, and the car swerved out of control when one of the tires blew, slamming her against a car parked at the curb and bringing her to a sudden, jarring stop. She was out and running again almost at once. Brakes squealed behind her, but she didn't take time to glance over her shoulder.

Dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, with only a thin pair of cotton socks to protect her feet, she sprinted through the night.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Catherine sat on her bed, knees drawn up to her chest, deep in thought. Vincent had been distracted the night before, and she'd returned to her chamber early, knowing he was tired. But he'd still been distant at breakfast, and he'd left her shortly afterward to spend the day far below the community tunnels—though whether on legitimate business or to avoid her questions, she couldn't have guessed. Preoccupied with her concern for him, she'd been more of a hindrance than a help to Julia, who had finally accused her good-naturedly of wool-gathering and shooed her from the storeroom.

After that, she had wandered aimlessly until Rebecca had recruited her to help make candles. Catherine smiled to herself. Her clumsy attempt at hand-dipped candles had been the source of much merriment, but Rebecca had assured her that the oddly shaped results would burn just as well as any other candle, and to prove it, she'd pressed one into Catherine's hand as she'd left the chamber. Catherine glanced over at it where it flickered merrily on the night stand. Candle making was apparently a very forgiving craft.

There was a sound at the chamber entrance, and she looked over to see Vincent standing in the doorway, watching her. Her heart gave the familiar little leap it always did at the sight of him.

"You're awake," he said, crossing the room to her side.

"I couldn't sleep." She moved over so he could sit down.

He took her hand in his, examining it in the candlelight, his thumb brushing back and forth across her skin. His silence worried her more than his absence had.

"It happened again, didn't it. The vision?"

His fingers stilled against hers. "Yes."

"Tell me."

"Something is very wrong," he said reluctantly. "I can feel it."

"Do you think he's in danger?" It was bad enough that Gabriel had taken their son. If he hurt him . . .

Vincent squeezed her hand. "I don't know."

The fear that filled her heart was reflected in Vincent's eyes.

"We're going to find him," she said, "I'm certain of it." She wasn't sure who she was trying to convince. She only knew that there was comfort in the familiar litany. "We'll bring him home."

He nodded, his gaze settling on the crooked little candle on the nightstand. "Catherine, after we find him . . ." He kept his eyes on the candle, but there was tension in the line of his jaw and the set of his shoulders. "What will you do then?"

Catherine took a deep breath in a futile attempt to calm a sudden attack of nerves. She'd wondered when they would have this conversation, and while she was certain of what she wanted, she was less sure of him.

She willed her voice not to tremble. "I'm not sure."

"Will you return Above?"

Why wouldn't he look at her? "Is that what you want?"

He stood and crossed to the dresser, where he picked up a small figurine. It was a dancer, a tiny ballerina in a dark blue tutu. He turned it over and over in his hands while she watched him and wondered what he was thinking.

"What I want," he said, as he set the porcelain figure back in its place, "all I've ever wanted, is your happiness."

Catherine pushed the covers off and crossed to his side. "I _am_ happy, Vincent. As happy as I _can_ be, without . . ." She let the thought trail off, but she knew he'd understood her unspoken words. _Without our son_.

"What happened between us in that cave . . ." His eyes were still on the little ballerina. He traced the edge of her skirt with his fingernail. "I could never regret the miracle that gave us our son, even though I have no memory of it." Dropping his hand back to his side, he turned to face her. "But I would never ask you to give up your life Above."

There was such conflict in his expression, and she knew he was waging a silent battle between what he wanted and what he thought she needed.

"Vincent, what happened between us that night was something I'd been wanting for a long time. You must know that." Their bond was too strong for him not to have known, even though he'd never mentioned it. "We loved, and our son came from that love, and I would give my life for either one of you." She reached for his hand. "But I wouldn't give up my life Above if I wasn't certain I was ready."

For two magical years, they'd lived the most fragile of dreams, a dream fraught with danger and excitement in equal measure. But now it was time to live a different dream. The city would always be there when the need for sunlight and color drew her from Vincent's side. She would always have friends there, people she loved and who loved her. But she was determined to make a life in _this_ world, a life that included Vincent and their son and whatever triumphs and tragedies the future might bring. A life they would face together.

"Three years ago," she said, choosing her words carefully, "I was lost. I didn't know who I was or what I wanted or where I fit in the world." She touched his leather pouch with its hidden rose, remembering the love and care that had gone into creating it for him. "And then I met you."

The mirror on the dresser reflected the flickering candlelight, magnifying it so that his hair glowed with golden fire. His eyes were locked on hers, his gaze intent as he listened to her, and she knew that every word she said carried the weight of their future on its shoulders.

"You helped me find myself," she continued, "and part of that, part of discovering who I was, meant living Above." She reached for his other hand and brought their joined fingers up between them as she stepped closer. "But I know who I am now. I know what gives my life meaning. And it isn't the opera, or my job with the D.A.'s office, or even the freedom to come and go as I please."

She gazed around the chamber—at Rebecca's handmade candles, Mary's patchwork quilts, and Cullen's meticulously restored furniture—and wondered if Vincent would ever truly understand what a rare and beautiful thing the tunnel community was.

"I belong here, now." Her voice was soft as she brought her eyes back to his. "With you, and our son, and all the people who make this place possible."

His fingers tightened around hers, and for an instant she thought she had convinced him.

"You were troubled before," he said. "You feared there was no place for you here."

She remembered her comment about wanting to be Catherine and not just Vincent's Catherine. "I'm starting to find my way." She thought of Julia, and the sewing circle, and her afternoon's adventure with the candles—bits and pieces that signified the beginning of a new life. Her work, simple as it was, was important to the community, and she took pride in that, and in the dawning conviction that she belonged among these people.

"Vincent . . . being a prisoner was horrible. It was lonely, and frightening, and humiliating. But as awful as it was, Gabriel did me a favor." It sounded outrageous, even to her. That something so devastating could simultaneously be a gift seemed impossible. And yet it was true.

"He took everything away from me. Everything. And at first I missed it terribly. I missed my friends and my job and my apartment—all the things that gave my life meaning. But after a while . . ." This was the important part, and she waited for him to meet her eyes before going on. "After a while, the only thing I missed, the only thing that made my heart ache, day in and day out . . ." she pressed a kiss against his fingers, "was you."

Vincent said nothing for a long time, and she waited quietly, knowing he needed to think it through. Finally, he took a deep breath and slid his fingers into her hair. "To have you near, always . . . it's something I never dared hope for."

"I know." She tilted her head into his touch. "Do you remember telling me that I deserved a life without limits?"

He nodded, and a faint smile played at the corners of his mouth. "You argued that there _is_ no life without limits."

"I also said that 'if this is my fate, I accept it, gratefully'." The thought of making a new life, with him and their son as the center of her world, filled her with joy. But there was one more thing he needed to know. "Vincent, I understand now what it's like to be afraid of being seen. I know how lonely it is to be invisible." If nobody noticed a cloaked figure standing in the shadows, did it really even exist? It was a question she'd considered often during those agonizing days when he'd been missing. "You don't have to be alone anymore."

Beyond her chamber, a subway train rumbled by, and Vincent lifted his head, looking toward the sound and then up at the unseen city above. "You deserve . . . so much more than I can give." There was a hint of sadness in his voice. Regret, perhaps, for all the wishes that would remain forever unfulfilled.

"Maybe." She almost smiled at the surprise in his eyes. He hadn't expected her to say that. "But there's no such thing as a perfect life, only a happy one." She freed her fingers from his and reached up to stroke her thumb across the fullness of his lower lip, watching his eyes darken in response. "And you," she murmured, pulling his head down to hers, "make me happy."

When she kissed him, his arms came around her, pulling her close, so that she felt his body come to life, sparking an answering hunger low in her belly. There was newfound confidence in the way his lips moved against hers, the way his hands slid over her back and hips, the sound of his voice when he pulled back just enough to whisper her name before taking her lips again.

She had intended to keep it light, but his effect on her was too potent, too overwhelming, her body's memory of his too vivid. And he must have shared her need, because his kisses took on an urgent intensity, drawing her in. Holding her. Loving her.

She buried her fingers in the rich luxury of his hair, and he responded with a low rumble of sound that made her pulse leap as their tongues met, teased, and danced away, only to return almost immediately for a sensual opening bid in a mating ritual both as old as time and as new as possibility. His breath was hot against her cheek, his leg firm between hers, and when he slid his hands under her sweater and up her back, she trembled, not with cold, but with an intense awareness of the brush of his skin against hers.

Abruptly, he swept her into his arms and carried her across the room, and in another heartbeat she was lying on the bed and he was bending over her. She pulled him down beside her, desperate to be closer, to feel him against her, with her, _in_ her—the hunger consuming her until there was nothing else but Vincent, no other sound or smell or taste but his.

His mouth was at her ear, and she heard him say her name again, his voice hoarse with desire, and she knew his need was as urgent as hers and that this time there would be no doubts, no hesitation. He reached for her sweater and she tugged at the laces of his shirt and there was a confused instant when their hands got tangled up in their frantic struggle for freedom. And then it passed and there were no more obstacles, and she whispered her pleasure when his weight settled against her.

He reached for her, but she ducked under his arm, and in another instant she was straddling his hips and smiling down at his look of surprised pleasure. She wanted to explore the thick whorls of hair and taste the warmth of his skin, but later, much later. First there were more immediate needs, needs that demanded satisfaction. She braced herself against his chest, lifted her hips, and settled against him in a slow, delicious glide that joined her body to his. Her awareness narrowed to that single exquisite point of contact, and she closed her eyes, reveling in the sense of completion as she rested against him, feeling him fill her body the way his love filled her soul.

At his low growl, her eyes flew open to lock on his passion-darkened gaze. His fingers flexed convulsively at her waist, holding her against him, his nails exerting gentle pinpricks of pressure against her sensitized skin. He kept her there, enthralled, while his eyes dropped from hers to perform a slow, deliberate inspection of her body. His heated gaze burned across her shoulders and breasts, paused at the flare of her hips, and then slid lower—making it hard to breathe, harder still to think. She curled her hands around his forearms and held on, letting him look his fill, her own eyes caressing the strong shoulders and broad chest that were, to her eyes, perfect.

When at last he moved, it was only to trail the fingers of one hand across the sensitive skin of her stomach. She shivered in response, and he rested there, his fingers tracing slow, mesmerizing circles, the dark fur and sharp claws an erotic contrast to her pale skin. When she looked up, she found him watching her, a question in his fathomless blue gaze. Whatever it was, whatever he wanted, she would give—gladly.

Apparently he saw the answer he needed, because his hand moved again, the slow circles widening until she thought anticipation alone might send her over the edge. A soft, desperate whimper reached her ears, and it took her a moment to realize that the sound had come from her own throat. She looked into his eyes and knew that he recognized his power over her, her utter vulnerability. She knew also that his vulnerabilities, though less apparent, were equally exposed, his risks as great as hers.

"Please . . ."

He held her gaze then, held it as surely as he held her body locked against his, and slowly, deliberately, let his fingers follow the curve of her body.

She bucked against him, unable to control her reaction to his touch, barely aware of the way his head jerked back against the pillow, the way his fingers tightened at her waist as her muscles clenched around him. Panicked, she froze, her heart pounding as she fought for control. _Too soon! Too fast! Wait!_ The words hovered between them, unspoken, but Vincent only shook his head and shifted beneath her, his hips rising against her once, twice, his fingers moving in maddening, rhythmic circles, and abruptly she was lost, the world dissolving in a wash of color and feeling.

Long seconds later, she returned to awareness to find herself sprawled across his chest, his heartbeat echoing the slowing rhythm of hers. His arms were wrapped around her now, holding her close while he rubbed soothing circles against the small of her back with one hand and brushed the hair out of her eyes with the other. They were still joined, and she felt him pulse deep within her, the movement sparking an answering response in muscles still eager for his touch.

"Vincent . . ." She'd been about to apologize, but he stopped her with a finger to her lips.

His eyes shone with love as he shifted his hands back to her waist. He lifted her easily, just a little, and then eased her back down, and she sucked in a breath as he slid deep inside her, filling her. He did it again, holding her captive with his eyes, refusing to let her look away while he did it again, and again, and she blessed his extraordinary strength as she began to move with him, giving herself over to the slow, rolling motion and her body's building response.

Without warning, he caught her to him and rolled, and an instant later she was looking up at him as his head came down to hers and he took her mouth in a searing kiss. When he raised his head, his eyes were filled with so much tenderness that Catherine had to swallow past a sudden lump in her throat.

He moved with slow, almost maddening precision, and she matched his pace in an intimate dance to unheard music, their bodies responding in unison to the sensual crescendo, their bond heightening every sensation, every emotion, so that Catherine felt they must eventually merge forever in a single shattering crash of cymbals and timpani. She reached out for that moment, wanting to claim it for him, for herself, but it stayed just out of reach, so she tried harder, moving faster, pulling at his hips and whispering his name as they rose together, climbing, spiraling higher and higher. And then at last it was within her reach, and she stretched out her arms toward it, arching against him as her soul shattered into a million pieces that sparkled like diamonds in the candlelight.

When it was over, they settled easily, gently, into each other's arms, the slowing tremors washing over them like the final diminishing notes of a great symphony, and as their breathing slowed and their heartbeats returned to normal, she curled close to his warmth.

It was several minutes before she felt his kiss against her hair.

"Catherine." She would never tire of the way he said her name, each syllable enunciated with tender precision. "I love you." His voice was barely more than a whisper at her ear. "So very much."

She looked up, only to sink into the warmth in his eyes. "And I love you." She drew a pattern in his fur, fascinated by the way it tickled her palm, simultaneously soft and wiry. "Vincent . . ."

He brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes, his touch achingly gentle. "Tell me."

She hesitated, uncertain how to voice her thoughts. She didn't want to frighten him, but they needed to talk before fate took the choice out of their hands.

"What is it, Catherine?" There was concern in his voice now, and she gathered her courage, unwilling to alarm him.

"Vincent, do you . . .?" She swallowed and tried again, determined to force the words out despite the ridiculous blush she felt creeping up her neck. Lowering her eyes to the rich fur beneath her fingers, she forced the words past nervous lips. "How do you feel about birth control?"

He was quiet for so long that she chanced a glance at his face, just to make sure he'd heard her.

His stunned expression confirmed that he had.

"Forgive me, Catherine. I should have thought—"

She shook her head with a gentle smile, feeling a little silly for being so nervous about bringing it up. They were adults, after all. And somewhere out there was living proof that they needed to have this conversation. "I think maybe I'm the one who should have considered it sooner, but that doesn't matter, now. Besides . . ." She settled back against his chest and rested her arm across his waist, thrilled by the intimate brush of his body against hers. "I can't think of anything that would make me happier than to have another child with you."

Vincent's arms tightened around her. "Perhaps," he said, and she heard a hint of wonder in the quiet words as he acknowledged the possibility. "But not now. Not yet. There is much to consider, first."

He was right, of course. How could she think about bringing another child into the world when their son was still missing?

"But maybe some day?" She couldn't quite keep the hopeful tone out of her voice.

"I think . . ." he took in a deep breath, his chest expanding beneath her head, "when the time is right . . . I would like that very much."

The words were cautious, with a barely there hint of unease, but the thought of carrying another child conceived of their love, this time with Vincent by her side, sent a shiver of eager anticipation through her. "Should I speak with Father about it?"

"No." There was an edge of humor in his voice as he smoothed his hand up her back and nuzzled the top of her head. "I think, perhaps, Peter."

Despite herself, a quiet giggle escaped Catherine's throat at the thought of Father's reaction to her request for birth control.

"Peter it is," she said. She stretched up for his kiss, amused and frustrated by her body's instantaneous response to his touch. They really shouldn't take any more chances until after she'd seen Peter. "Soon."


	23. Chapter 23

Diana hid in the shadows for almost half an hour before she approached the all-night diner. She came here often in search of a hot meal, so she wouldn't have been surprised to discover that it was being watched. But all appeared quiet, and the handful of patrons took little notice of her when she finally slipped inside.

There was a pay phone at the back, and on the scarred and stained counter, a miracle in the form of a handful of coins not yet collected by the lone waitress. Diana snagged a quarter on her way past, ignored the waitress's indignant exclamation, and hurried to the phone booth.

"Okay." She lifted the phone out of the cradle, biting her lip while she tried to remember Joe's number. "Okay. Just think." She dropped in the quarter, dialed three digits, hesitated, and then punched in the final four with a silent prayer that she'd gotten it right.

"Hello."

_Oh, thank God_. "Joe."

"Yeah."

"It's Diana. Look. I'm in a lot of trouble." Outside, a black car pulled to a stop at the curb, and panic rose in Diana's throat. She struggled to keep her voice even, but Joe would've had to be deaf not to hear her fear. "I'm down at this all-night diner at the corner of Grant and Chambers."

"Grant and Chambers. Got it."

"Could you just come and get me?" She sank to the floor of the booth as two men entered the diner. "Could you hurry?"

The newcomers looked official. They wore dark suits and flashed badges of some kind at the waitress. Diana listened to them from her place on the floor.

"NYPD. We're looking for a white female suspect. Long red hair. Wearing a t-shirt and sweat pants. Probably isn't wearing shoes."

"Yeah." The waitress sounded bored. "She was in here. She pocketed one of my tips. Then she just disappeared."

Diana allowed herself a small sigh of relief. Either the waitress hadn't seen her go into the booth, or she hated cops. Either way, Diana was grateful. But she'd forgotten to hang up the phone, and she cursed as the handset started to squawk, the distinctive tones announcing her presence with all the subtlety of a bullhorn.

Footsteps approached at a run, and an instant later, a booted foot kicked in the door.

A heavyset man glared down at her, his arm locked around a customer's neck. "It's over!" The woman's eyes were wide with fear, her hands pulling at the man's beefy forearm as she struggled for breath. "We can leave these people alive," the man said coldly, "or we can kill them. It depends on how you walk out of here."

A string of silent curses echoed in Diana's mind. She dropped her gun and kicked it across the worn linoleum. As she stood to follow her captors, her stomach churned with sick fear, but she swore to herself that this was only a temporary defeat.

In the end, _she_ would be the victor.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent hurried through the deserted tunnels. It was very late. By rights he should have been asleep. But the dream had come again, darker and more frightening than ever before. It had driven him from the safe haven of Catherine's arms, and now, unwilling to cause her more worry, he turned toward Father's chamber.

He approached the bed quietly, taking a deep breath before he reached out. "Father."

"Vincent." A light sleeper, Father woke at once at Vincent's light touch on his arm. He sat up, reaching for his robe. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Vincent moved across the room and sat down. "I need to speak with you."

"Is everything all right?" Father took a seat across from him, his brow furrowed with worry. "You still aren't sleeping, are you." It was a statement rather than a question.

"I close my eyes, but my son . . ." Vincent shook his head. "The shadow of his image haunts my thoughts and will not let me rest."

"Like before?"

"No," Vincent said. "Not the heartbeat. Only . . ." he paused, searching for an appropriate description, "a powerful sense of foreboding."

"Well, that probably means that your empathic connection to him is growing stronger."

"Perhaps. I hope that that is so." But there was more to these waking dreams than simple empathy. "Father, there is something more that I should tell you." He looked away. "Someone has come into my life. Someone from the world Above. A woman."

Father's surprise and uneasiness were clear in his eyes. "A woman?"

"Her name is Diana," Vincent said. "She works with the police. She's been investigating Catherine's case."

"And you went to her?"

"She found me after the explosion on the _Compass Rose_." The details of his trip from the boatyard to the cemetery were vague—shadows and fragments of images, haunting pain. "I was near death," he said. "She brought me to her home and nursed me until I was well again."

"What do you mean she found you?"

"Over the months, she gathered the threads of my life with Catherine. Wove them together. Understood. Truly, Father. She understands. She knew that I would go to Catherine's grave." And she'd been right. Even though Catherine hadn't been there, the place had called to him.

"So she waited."

"She saved my life."

Father's concern was almost palpable. "Vincent, if _she_ managed to find you, surely others—"

"No." Vincent searched for words with which to explain his certainty. "This is different. The power of her mind is extraordinary. Unique. Her imagination . . ."

"Can she be trusted?"

"She would not betray me. Or Catherine." He hesitated. "Father, she knows that Catherine is alive."

"You _told_ her?" Father's shock showed plainly in his face.

Vincent nodded. "She had a right to the truth."

"What did she say?"

"She was angry at first, but I believe she understands why we've kept Catherine hidden from the world Above."

"Has she _seen_ Catherine?"

"No." Vincent picked up a book and slid his fingers down the leather spine. "Father, you must promise me something."

Something in Vincent's voice must've alerted Father to the gravity of the promise, because he tensed, his hands curling around the arms of his chair. "What is it?"

"If something should happen to me . . ." He looked up, meeting Father's eyes. "Promise me you'll look after Catherine. Keep her safe. Help her contact Diana and continue the search for our son."

He'd told Catherine the truth. He was worried for their son. But _his_ life was in danger as well. This he had not shared with her. Would not share with her.

"Vincent . . ." Father was afraid. It was there in the way the way the corners of his mouth turned down and the faint tremble in his voice. "What are you saying?"

"Please, Father. I must know that Catherine will not be alone."

Father sighed. Then he nodded slowly. "You have my word."

"Thank you." Vincent felt the burden he carried lessen somewhat. There was still much that concerned him, but it helped to know that Catherine, at least, would be cared for.

Father covered Vincent's hand with his. "Are you absolutely certain Diana can be trusted?"

He wasn't certain. He wasn't certain at all. And yet . . . "She is our last hope."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Diana had no sense of how long they drove. There was no conversation, and she couldn't see through the woolen ski-mask they'd pulled over her head. When they finally stopped, she heard doors open and a muttered discussion. Somebody grabbed her arm and jerked her from the car, and she stumbled before finding her footing. She still wore the hood, but beyond the damp wool she thought she caught a hint of pine. The night air was cold against her skin, and she shivered, wishing for her coat.

Rough hands tugged at her elbow, guiding her up half a dozen steps and into a building. A door closed behind her, and she heard a muted click as someone locked it. Several sets of footsteps echoed against tile floors—dress shoes or boots, not sneakers—and even when they moved onto deep carpeting, the largeness of the space engulfed her. She listened and breathed and learned, stretching the senses she had remaining to her, alert to any detail that might lead her back later.

They led her up a curving staircase wide enough for at least three to walk abreast, and down a hallway that smelled of furniture polish and old wood. She counted twenty steps before the hand at her elbow pulled her to a stop and somebody knocked on a door. Wood. And thick, judging by the dull thuds. A male voice called to them to enter. It wasn't a particularly deep voice, so its owner probably wasn't a big man. A latch clicked, and the hand shoved her inside. She smelled baby powder, heard the tinkle of music. Mobile? Music box?

Somebody yanked the hat off her head, and she blinked, taking in a deep breath of blessedly cool air.

She stood in a large, high-ceilinged room with wide windows, barren white walls, and plush gray carpeting. A tall crib stood against the far wall, flanked on one side by an ornate rocking chair, and on the other by a combination changing table and dresser. The three pieces, all made from some kind of dark wood, were the only furniture in the room. A dark-haired man with deep-set eyes and a narrow face watched her from beside the crib. Gabriel. She was sure of it. But why? And what did he want with her?

Gabriel directed an abrupt dismissal to someone behind Diana's shoulder. "Thank you."

The man started to back out of the room, and Gabriel lifted a hand in lazy command. "Pope," he said. "Gently."

When they were alone, Gabriel turned his attention to Diana. "I wish you hadn't run, Miss Bennett. You've wasted precious time." His voice carried an air of authority. This was a man well-used to the trappings of power.

"What do you want?" Diana didn't bother to hide her antipathy.

With a slight smile, he waved her over to the crib. "Please." He waited until she came to stand beside him. "This is my son, Miss Bennett. He's very beautiful. Don't you agree?"

Diana forced herself to remain expressionless as she studied the tiny infant. Vincent's child. And Catherine's. He was beautiful, but she'd die before she would admit it to this man.

Gabriel was watching her. He had sharp eyes, the kind of eyes that noticed details. "Look at his hands, Miss Bennett. And his face. There's nothing unusual there." He tilted his head, eyebrows raised. "Do you find it strange?"

Did he really think she was stupid enough to fall for that? "Why would I find it strange?"

"I think the resemblance is in the eyes. What do you think?"

"I don't think he looks anything like you." Actually, he looked a lot like his mother. At least, as much as any baby resembled a parent. She'd never been much good at that sort of thing.

"Precisely." Apparently satisfied with that answer, Gabriel nodded. "The trouble is, he's dying."

As if on cue, the baby whimpered, his hands flailing weakly, fingers curved into helpless fists. She wanted to sweep him up in her arms and run, but she knew she wouldn't get past the door. So she stood, helpless and frustrated, struggling to remain impassive beneath Gabriel's knowing gaze.

"Some powerful illness." Gabriel shook his head. "The doctors don't know how to help him."

It wasn't until Diana felt the bite of her own nails that she realized she'd balled her hands into fists. She made a conscious effort to relax, but her fingers felt stiff and gnarled, their natural flexibility overcome by rage.

"But I do," Gabriel said, his eyes on her hands. "And I believe you do, too."

The baby was watching her, and there was a depth to his gaze that made her wonder just how much he understood of what was going on around him. It seemed almost as if he was trying to communicate his confidence in her. She made him a silent promise. _Somehow, I'll find a way to get you home_.

"The child," Gabriel was saying, "needs his natural father."

_And his mother_. Turning away from the baby, Diana pasted on a baffled expression. "You lost me about two steps back."

Irritation flared in Gabriel's eyes. "You're fast, Miss Bennett. I'll give you that." He brushed his bent finger across the baby's cheek. "Unfortunately, I don't have time to play. Maybe a few hours."

"I still don't know what you're talking about." Her mind raced, her frustration growing as she discarded one impossible idea after another.

"The ring, Miss Bennett. He gave you the ring." Gabriel held up his hand. The familiar gold band gleamed in an oddly menacing way. It was an exact twin to the one Vincent had given her. "I believe you were curious about the inscription."

So that was how they'd found her. The jeweler. Diana couldn't decide whether to curse Fate or thank it. If Gabriel hadn't come looking for her, it was a safe bet she never would've found him. "_Veritas_."

"_Veritas_ _de liberat_." He dropped his hand and turned back to the crib. "Find him," he said. "Find him, and tell him that Catherine Chandler's child is dying."

"What proof do I have that that's Catherine Chandler's—"

"You have no proof, Miss Bennett." The look he gave her was cold, calculating. "And the child has no time. Take that message to Vincent."

"What makes you assume that I can make contact with him?"

He gave her a thin smile. "You'll find a way."

His stride as he crossed the room to open the door made her think of a panther, or maybe a mountain lion—elegant, silent, and deadly. While he spoke with the man named Pope, she looked around once more, cataloguing everything she saw.

Everybody had an Achilles heel.

She just needed to find Gabriel's.

**xXx**

**xXx**

In a January blizzard, knit caps saved lives. But this was early May, and the woolen hat that covered Diana's eyes was both scratchy and suffocating. She took a shallow breath and wondered how much longer they would keep driving in aimless circles. Almost as if he'd read her mind, Pope shifted beside her, and an instant later the hat was removed.

He dropped it on the seat and handed her a pair of shoes. _Her_ shoes.

"There you are," he said in a cheerful British accent. "You can put these on." He followed the shoes with her coat. "And you'll need this. There's money in the pocket." Finally, he gave her a folded piece of paper. "Call this number to set up the next rendezvous."

He leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder, and the car slowed to a stop. "You may go, Miss Bennett."

As soon as she was out, the car pulled away and left her standing in the darkness, staring after it.

And wondering what to do next.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Diana made her way to the drainage tunnels beneath Central Park. The last time she'd seen Vincent had been when he'd defended her from those vagrants. With any luck, she'd find him here again. When she was sure no one was watching, she slipped inside and came to an uncertain stop in front of a rusted metal grate. Now what?

"Vincent!" she called into the darkness, feeling a little silly as her voice echoed off the concrete walls. "Vincent!"

There was no answer.

She spotted a small, rectangular hole near the floor. With a quick glance at her watch she knelt down beside it. Gabriel had said the child was running out of time, and even to her inexperienced eye he'd looked pale and weak.

"I need to speak with Vincent!" she called. "My name is Diana. I'm a friend of his."

But the only response to her plea was a stubborn, deafening silence.

"Are you there? Please! I don't have much time. Just tell Vincent where I am." She crossed to the opposite wall, sat down, and pulled her knees up to her chest. She would wait a while, give him time to get her message and make his way here.

Ten minutes later, when he still hadn't appeared, she was back at the opening. "Please tell Vincent where I am! I'm a friend!"

She repeated the call every ten minutes. It was the only thing she knew to do.

Meanwhile, time continued to slip away.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Father wrote quickly, pouring his fears onto the blank pages of his journal in a futile attempt to find some small sense of comfort. When Rebecca said his name from the doorway, he closed the book and looked up at her with a tired smile and as much calm assurance as he could muster.

"Rebecca. Come in. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." But she twisted her hands in a nervous gesture he'd seen before.

"What is it?"

"I was on watch tonight." She came down the steps. "There's a woman on the upper level under the park. Calling out for Vincent. But she isn't a helper."

"Was her name Diana?"

"Yes." She nodded, obviously surprised that he knew the stranger's name. "I was going to tell Vincent, but I wasn't sure . . ."

"Was a message sent on the pipes?"

"Yes."

"Then Vincent will have heard it. And go himself." He rubbed his forehead, trying not to let himself worry about what the message might mean.

"Who is she?" Rebecca asked. "Is she a friend?"

"I hope so." If she wasn't . . . No. He wouldn't think about that.

Rebecca nodded and left, and Father opened his journal once more. Picking up his pen, he lowered his head and began to write.

_Please, God. Keep him safe._

**xXx**

**xXx**

Diana was nearly ready to give up when she saw the faint glow of approaching light. Vincent. Thank God. When he reached her, he set down an old-fashioned oil lantern and turned to her without speaking. His eyes, reflected in the lantern light, were identical to his son's.

"I saw Gabriel," she said, getting straight to the point.

Vincent stiffened. "Where is he?"

"I don't know. They took me to him in secret. I . . ." She hesitated, wondering all at once if she was doing the right thing. It was entirely possible she was sending Vincent to his own execution. And yet, what right did she have to deny him the choice? "I saw a baby."

Hope flared in his eyes. "A baby!"

She nodded. "He said it was yours and Catherine's."

"You saw my son!" Happiness lit his face.

"I don't know if it was your son, Vincent." What if it wasn't? What if Gabriel had just used her to set Vincent up? "It was a baby."

"Tell me."

"The child is very ill. Gabriel said that the doctors—"

"The child is ill." The way he said it, as though it was the answer to a puzzle of some kind, made her blink. "Then the child _is_ mine."

How could he be so certain? "We don't _know_ that."

Vincent waved her doubts aside. "For days now, I've sensed his pain, his strength falling away." He stared at her, the light of hope in his eyes. "The visions. The waking dreams. I _know_ their source now. Their meaning." He paused and she sensed his distance as his thoughts turned inward. Then his expression cleared and he put his hand on her arm. "My son is dying. You must take me to him."

"That's exactly what Gabriel wants. You can't surrender yourself to him like that."

"There is no other way."

"Then he'll kill you." Desperate now, she touched his arm. "And you know it."

Vincent looked at her, and she saw the steely determination in his eyes, felt it in the muscles that tensed beneath her fingers. "First I will save my son."

"What about Catherine?" Shouldn't he at least discuss it with her, first?

He glanced behind him, down the darkened tunnels. "This is something I must do," he said, and his voice was so low he seemed almost to be speaking to himself. "Catherine . . . will understand."

They found a pay phone just beyond the boundaries of the park, and Diana made the call. The conversation lasted only seconds. When it was over, she hung up the phone and returned to Vincent, who stood, cloaked and silent, in the shadows.

"The roof of the old Battery Arms building. Five minutes." She had a sick feeling that she was sending Vincent to his death, but she knew there was no stopping him. He would do whatever it took to reach his son—no matter how high the price.

Vincent nodded. "For all that you have done," he said gravely, "I cannot thank you enough."

"Vincent, when this is all over and you've found your son—"

"I will come to you."

She touched his arm. "Be careful."

He nodded once, turned, and disappeared into the shadows in a whispered swirl of heavy fabric. An instant later, it was like he'd never been there at all.

With a last, worried glance in the direction he'd gone, Diana shook her head. The future was in God's hands, now. God's . . . and Vincent's.


	24. Chapter 24

The Battery Arms wasn't far, and it only took Vincent a couple of minutes to make his way to its roof. He was there, standing in the shadows, when the rhythmic thump of a helicopter drew his attention to the sky. The steady whump, whump, whump of the blades against the air brought back a surge of agonizing memories, memories he forced aside. Catherine was safe. It was their son who needed him now.

The helicopter rose above the level of the roof, and Vincent saw a faceless form silhouetted in its open doorway. The man had a weapon. Before Vincent could react, something sharp pierced his vest, burning into the skin beneath. He reached for the source of the pain, tugged at the object embedded there, and recognized it as a tranquilizer dart. He'd seen them before. He flung it aside with a roar of defiance. Almost at once, a second dart struck him. This time, the burning sensation spread quickly, stealing his strength and forcing him to the ground.

The helicopter settled to the roof like an ungainly dragonfly as Vincent's vision dimmed and darkness closed in. With the last of his strength, he watched three men alight to the roof and run toward him.

All three carried guns.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Catherine awoke with a start. She was alone in her chamber, and the world around her seemed at peace. Even the pipes were quiet. And yet something felt wrong.

She pushed back the covers, reached for her robe, and climbed from the bed. Candle in hand, she left her chamber, making her way through the still and silent tunnels. She heard no warnings, saw nobody who could explain away the unsettled feeling that had disturbed her rest.

Vincent's chamber was empty.

She kept moving, headed for Father's chamber now. Surely he would know what was going on.

She found him in his study, his head bent over a book, a half-burned candle at his side.

"Father?"

He looked up. "Catherine. Come in." Setting the book aside, he waved her to a chair.

"Father, Vincent isn't in his chamber."

"No." He sighed. "I know."

His lack of surprise bothered her. Had Vincent told Father where he was going, but not her?

"Where is he?"

"That I don't know. I can only tell you that there was a woman looking for him a few hours ago. Somebody he met Above."

"Diana?"

"Yes."

Why would Diana come looking for him? Was there news? Had she found their son?

"So he's gone Above?"

"I can only assume so."

"But why?"

"I don't know."

She stood up, unable to sit still, needing to think.

"I need to find her."

"How?"

She met his gaze across the dimly lit room. "Joe."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Gradually, Vincent became aware that he was lying on a concrete floor. Behind him, a stone wall rose to the ceiling. Steel bars surrounded him on the other three sides. Over his head, a single light bulb dangled from a frayed wire. His wrists were manacled, with long chains affixed to brackets embedded deep within the stone. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He knew this feeling, knew what it was to be caged.

Beyond the bars, the room was dark, but as his vision cleared, he could see the cameras mounted in the corners, their unblinking eyes watching his every move. He studied the room, taking in the old wooden table, the circuit box with its door hanging open, and the narrow steps leading up to a closed door. Bare light bulbs hung at intervals, long chains dangling from them like strands of abandoned spider webs.

He reached for the bars, intending to pull himself to his feet—and reeled back when fiery heat exploded up his arm, throwing him back against the stone wall. Stunned, he sank to the floor.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Gabriel and the doctor stood beside the crib, watching Julian. The nursery was quiet, lights dimmed so that the baby could rest. He continued to weaken, and so far the doctor had had no success in treating him. Indeed, for all his gold-plated credentials and high-priced expertise, the doctor had told Gabriel nothing he couldn't have discovered for himself, and he was beginning to lose patience. Indeed, had it not been for Julian, Gabriel would've dealt with Jacobson as soon as his failure to dispose of Catherine Chandler had come to light. And now, with the passage of time and Julian's continued decline, Gabriel was beginning to rethink his decision to let the man live.

"Well?" Gabriel asked, as Jacobson stepped back and removed the stethoscope from his ears.

"No change."

"And the blood test?"

"I've never seen anything like it. The child's is unusual, but _his_ . . ."

Gabriel shook his head impatiently. "Try to be more specific, doctor."

"They share certain similarities, but a transfusion is out of the question."

"Why?"

"The child would die." Jacobson's tone left no room for doubt.

"What do you suggest?" Gabriel reached into the crib and lifted out his son, looking down into the small face. "Has medical science nothing to offer?" In his mind, he saw his plans, his grand future, threatening to crumble into dust.

"There is no logical reason for the illness. We've tried every test."

Gabriel shifted the baby so that he rested against his shoulder. He splayed his hand across the tiny back. He knew why Julian was sick. And he knew how to make him well. But the prospect galled him.

"There are reasons for everything," he said, his eyes drifting to the wide windows.

Vincent would not win this war. Gabriel would see to it.

Somehow, he _would_ find a way to save Julian's life.

And end Vincent's.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent paced the small enclosure, careful not to touch the bars. His son was close. He could feel his presence somewhere above his head. But the child was growing weaker with each passing hour, and Vincent's inability to reach him had driven his anger and frustration to dangerous levels, so that he felt that other part of him, the part that took over and committed unspeakable crimes, might soon free itself from his tight restraint.

He looked up at the video cameras. On the other side of those unblinking eyes his tormentor was watching him. He was certain of it.

"Gabriel!" He paced to the other end of the cage and glared up at the cameras. "He's dying! I can _feel_ him dying!"

There was no response. The door at the other end of the room remained stubbornly closed.

"Bring him to me!"

**xXx**

**xXx**

Catherine waited until it was very late before venturing Above. Her cloak, cleaned and patched, covered her from head to toe, and she held it tightly closed as she hurried through the quiet streets. She was excited, looking forward to seeing Joe, to letting him see that she was alive and well. And yet she worried that he would be unwilling to keep her secret; that he would call in the authorities, thus making public what by necessity must remain private.

But there were no other options. Vincent was missing. And Diana might know why.

And the only way to reach Diana was through Joe.

When she arrived at his apartment, she took a deep breath before raising her hand to knock.

"Yeah." He sounded groggy, which wasn't surprising, considering the lateness of the hour.

She didn't dare answer for fear somebody would recognize her voice, so she knocked again.

"Keep your shorts on! I'm coming!"

There was a sharp click as he twisted the lock, and then the door opened and he stood there looking at her, dressed in boxers and a t-shirt, and suddenly she had to fight back tears and swallow the lump in her throat. She'd missed him so much.

"What the hell…?"

Slowly, she eased the hood back enough for him to see her face.

"Cathy?"

Catherine darted a glance behind her, keeping her voice low. "Please, Joe. Can I come in?"

He glanced over her shoulder, caught her arm, and pulled her inside, but she didn't relax until she heard the lock click into place.

When he turned back to her, shock and disbelief were etched on his face. "Cathy? Is it really you?"

She pushed the hood all the way off, letting it fall down her back. "Hello, Joe."

"Oh, my God! Cathy!" And then they were hugging and crying and for a while neither one of them said anything at all.

Finally he stepped back, his hands going to her shoulders. "Where have you been?"

She shook her head. "I can't tell you that."

"We thought you were dead! There was a funeral!"

"I know."

"Why didn't you say something? Send me a message? Anything to let me know you were okay!"

"I couldn't."

He stared at her for a long, assessing moment. Then he turned and sat down on the couch, calmer now that the initial shock had worn off. "Moreno?"

"Partly." She hated that she had caused him so much pain and grief. "He let them take me, Joe. Back when it first happened. It was Moreno who gave me up."

"I figured as much. Is that why you've stayed away? Because he's gone. Burch killed him."

"Elliot didn't kill him."

"Then who did?"

"I can't tell you that." Joe was her friend, and the urge to confide in him was strong. But her loyalty to Vincent and the tunnel community had to come first.

"Jesus, Cathy. What the hell is going on?"

She turned away, going to the window. "The man who took me, who tried to kill me . . . _He_ killed Elliot Burch."

"What about Moreno? He kill him, too?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

"Joe, you have to trust me. There are things I can't tell you."

"After everything that's happened, you show up here in the middle of the night dressed like something out of _Phantom of the Opera_ and I'm just supposed to trust you?"

She set aside her momentary surprise. Joe_, _the man she'd once teased about preferring Billy Joel to Franz Schubert, knew _The Phantom of the Opera_? "Please. I need your help."

He stared at her for a long, tense minute before finally nodding. "What do you need me to do?"

"The man . . . The one who killed Elliot. His name is Gabriel."

"Gabriel who?"

"I don't know his last name."

Joe shook his head. "It isn't much to go on, Cathy. There must be hundreds of Gabriels in Manhattan alone."

She sat down beside him, her body angled so that she could see his eyes. "I need to find Diana Bennett."

Confusion clouded his expression. "How do you know Diana?"

"I know she's been working on my case."

He blew out an exasperated sigh. "Not voluntarily."

"I need to find her. I need to ask her some questions."

"About this Gabriel person?"

"Among other things."

Abruptly, Joe got to his feet and paced away from her, running his fingers through his hair. "This is nuts."

"I know. I'm sorry."

He spun back to her. "Are you? Because you aren't doing a hell of a lot to make things better."

She lifted her hands helplessly. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to tell me what the hell's going on! You ask me to trust you, but you won't tell me a damn thing!"

"You don't understand."

"Why don't you explain it to me?"

Catherine felt a wave of affection for this man who had given her his friendship when she'd been struggling to create a new life for herself. He'd done so much for her, and all she had to repay him with were mysteries and half-truths. "I'll tell you what I can, but it isn't much."

Crafting a version of events that would satisfy his curiosity without risking the safety of the tunnel community was a delicate, time-consuming task. She spoke slowly, thinking and rethinking each word to be sure there were no clues, that nobody but herself could be put in danger by what she was telling him. When she finished, he shook his head.

"So this guy Gabriel still has your son."

"Yes."

"And you want me to help you find him."

"I think maybe Diana already has."

He sighed and shook his head. "Diana's missing, Cathy. She called me last night from some diner downtown. Said she was in trouble. But when I got there, she was gone."

"You don't have any idea where she went?"

"No."

She was still alive. At least, she had been when she'd come to the tunnels to see Vincent.

"Can you tell me what she looks like?"

"I can do better than that." Joe stood up and crossed to a desk that was littered with papers and case files. He dug through the folders, selecting one and returning to her side. He handed it to her. "Her service report," he said. "Picture's inside."

Catherine opened the folder. The photo was stapled to the top corner of the report. She stared at it, memorizing the face—the long red hair, the clean features, the intelligent green eyes. She looked back up at Joe.

"Can I take this?"

"I'll catch hell if that file disappears. You know that."

She waited in silence, watching him.

He blew out a breath. "Give it to me for a sec."

She gave him the folder, and he tore off the picture, handing it over to her. "Need a new one anyway," he said with a crooked smile.

"Thanks, Joe."

"I don't know how much good it'll be. New York's a pretty big place."

"I know some people who can help."

His gaze sharpened on her face. "Yeah," he said. "I suspect maybe you do."

"I need to ask you one more favor."

He tilted his head to one side, a lopsided grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I'm almost afraid to ask."

"Don't tell anyone you've seen me, okay?"

"Not even Jenny?"

Catherine's heart broke a little as she thought about Jenny, but she shook her head. Involving Joe had been risky enough. She wouldn't put any more of her friends in danger. "Not even her."

"Cathy . . ." He took a step toward her. "You have to let me help you."

"I know, just . . . not yet, okay?"

"You can't just expect me to sit back and do nothing while you're out there risking your neck!"

"I promise, Joe. Somebody will be in touch when there's something you can do." She'd stayed too long. It would be dawn soon. She stood up and crossed to the door. "I can't be seen," she said, as she pulled the hood back over her hair. "I need to go, before . . ." She gestured to the window.

He got to his feet and crossed to where she stood. "Cathy—" His hand settled on her shoulder, and worry clouded his expression. "Be careful out there."

"I will." She hugged him. "And thanks."

"For what?"

"For being my friend."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Gabriel sat alone behind the bank of video screens. There were eight of them in a single long row, each one showing the steel-barred cage, the dimly lit room, and the extraordinary creature that paced the tightly enclosed space in restless, unending circles.

He'd been staring at the display for hours. Watching. Thinking. Now he picked up the remote control, pointed it at one of the monitors, and hit a button. The video scrolled back, Vincent's image moving in sharp jerky motions as the recording rewound. He hit another button and the image froze. Then, after a brief pause, a third button made the video play at normal speed, and Vincent's angry voice spilled into the room, filling the dark corners and the empty places with rage and frustration.

"Gabriel! He's dying!" Vincent's face filled the screen. "I can _feel_ him dying!" He turned, paced to the far corner. Turned back. "Bring him to me, Gabriel! He needs more than my blood. He needs me!" He yanked at the chains that tied him to the wall, and Gabriel held his breath. "Are you listening? Go to him! Look at him! Touch him!"

Vincent glared up at the camera with bared fangs and clenched fists, and Gabriel was glad for the bars, glad he'd thought to electrify them.

"He's dying," Vincent said. "Can't you feel it?" He circled the room again, ending by coming as close to the cameras as the chains and bars would allow. "He's _your_ son only in life. But in death he's _mine_." His eyes pierced Gabriel even from this distance. "If he dies, you will have lost. Bring him to me! Let him live!"


	25. Chapter 25

Vincent sat against the wall, his eyes on the stairs and the closed door beyond. He'd given up on pacing. It was a useless waste of energy, energy he knew he must conserve. Instead he waited in silence, his muscles taut with rage and frustration as he felt his son's fragile spirit slipping away.

The door at the top of the stairs opened, and Vincent stood up. Four men and a single, uniformed woman came down the steps. The woman held a blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms. His son? His breath caught in his throat at the thought. Jaw clenched, he forced himself to silent, impassive stillness. But his thoughts were chaotic, wonder and hope battling with cold fury as he watched one of the men cross to the box on the wall and flip a switch. A second man approached the cell door while the other two stood back, their weapons trained on Vincent, fingers hovering over the triggers.

Vincent didn't move when the door opened to admit the woman. Her dark eyes watched him with wary distrust as she set the bundle on the floor and backed quickly away. The door closed and the lock clicked into place with metallic finality, and still Vincent waited. Inside the blanket, the baby whimpered, his voice a faint ripple of sound in the chilled silence of the room.

One of the guards flipped the switch on the wall, and Vincent heard the hum of electricity. Then the group reassembled and moved up the stairs in a precise reversal of their entrance, and only when they were gone, the door closing behind them with a quiet thud, did Vincent move from his place by the wall.

The distance separating him from his son seemed suddenly vast, the single stride required to bridge it the culmination of a lifetime of hopes and fears, dreams and possibilities. He sank to his knees, and with trembling fingers, eased the blanket aside.

The face that greeted his eyes was pale, the cheeks sunken from hunger and lack of sleep, but Vincent recognized the nose, the curve of the jaw, the shell-like ears. They were Catherine's, recreated in flawless miniature. His breath seized in his throat, and his heart beat a rapid tattoo against his ribs. This was _his_ son. _Their_ son. There were no doubts, no questions in his mind, as he stared down at the final, absolute proof of his humanity.

The baby squirmed, freeing a hand from the soft cotton blanket and reaching out to his father with fingers covered by skin so paper-thin, so delicate, that Vincent was almost afraid to touch them. But his son's desperate need called out to him, and he extended a finger, smiling when the baby grasped it with a strength that belied his small size. Only then did Vincent realize that his vision was blurred. He blinked, clearing the moisture from his eyes.

"He _is_ beautiful, Catherine."

With gentle hands, he lifted his son into his arms, held him close, and settled back against the wall. He thought that his heart must surely expand beyond the bounds of his chest, so full was it with love as he pulled the blanket back into place and tucked it with infinite care beneath the tiny chin. The baby's eyes were already closing; his small body relaxing into the comfort of his father's warmth.

As Vincent kept watch over his sleeping son, he made a silent promise to protect him, always, from those who would do him harm.

**xXx**

**xXx**

A sudden inexplicable surge of emotion drew Catherine's attention away from Diana's picture and the crowded library. Vincent. She only sensed him this way when he experienced something particularly intense. Had he found their son? She started to move, to get up, to call out. But the wave of feeling faded as quickly as it had come, and she was left bereft, her body settling slowly back into the chair.

"Cathy?" It was Peter. He knelt beside her, concerned. Around them, tunnel dwellers and topsiders alike stood together in small, uneasy groups. "Are you okay?"

She forced a smile. "I'm fine." Nobody else seemed to have noticed her odd behavior, their conversations continuing to ebb and flow around her like the tides of a restless sea. They'd come in response to an urgent summons from Father, and now they waited to hear what he would say, their quiet voices tense as they talked among themselves.

"Any news?"

She shook her head. "Not yet."

As if on queue, Father appeared at the top of the stairs, his shoulders bowed with worry and lack of sleep. "All right everybody, if I could have your attention?"

Almost at once, the room grew silent.

"I've called you here today to ask for your help." He looked around, meeting the eyes of helpers and tunnel dwellers alike. "Vincent is missing." Concerned glances passed from person to person. Most of them already knew about Vincent's disappearance, but those who were hearing the news for the first time looked horrified. Everybody knew the dangers if Vincent was caught Above.

Father raised a hand for silence.

"Yesterday, a woman came to the tunnels looking for Vincent. Her name is Diana Bennett. Catherine," he nodded his head in her direction, "has a photograph of her. She'll be passing it among you. We think . . . we hope that if we can find her, Miss Bennett will be able to give us some clue as to Vincent's whereabouts."

Heads turned as dozens of pairs of eyes searched out Catherine and the photo that was already passing from hand to hand.

"Miss Bennett works with the Manhattan police department. She's been investigating Catherine's case. She knows Vincent, and she knows that Catherine is alive, but . . ." he paused until he was certain he had everyone's attention, "she doesn't know about the tunnels. And I think it best that it remain so."

A low rumble of assent swept the chamber, and once more Father had to wait for silence. "We have reason to believe that Miss Bennett is in danger, and that she is aware of this. If you see her, try not to alarm her."

Someone in the back raised a hand. "What if she's in trouble when we find her?"

"Don't interfere. These people are very dangerous, and we don't want any of you to get hurt." He scanned the room. "Are there any more questions?"

There were, and Father answered each one patiently. Twenty minutes later, the meeting ended, and the room slowly emptied until Father and Catherine were alone once more. He crossed the chamber to sit down beside her.

"We'll find him, Catherine."

"It's just so hard to sit here and do nothing."

There was no answer to that.

Across the room, the pipes clanged with the daily message traffic. And in the heavy, antique chair, Catherine sat quietly, the only sign of her mounting tension the steady tapping of her fingers against the armrest.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Diana knew better than to return to her apartment. Gabriel had gotten what he wanted from her, but now she could identify him. Which meant that as soon as he was sure his message had been delivered to Vincent, her life was forfeit. His people were probably looking for her now.

Which was why she'd made her way to the rooftop of the building next to hers, and why she now thanked whatever accident of genetics had deprived her of nesting instincts and led to the bare windows that afforded her a clear view of her apartment.

When nothing moved inside, she looked down, checking the street. Sure enough, a dark sedan sat parked in the tow away zone, and she could just make out the shadowy forms of two men inside. _Damn_.

Keeping her body low, she made her way off the roof. Somehow, she had to get Joe and tell him about the Italian tile she'd seen in the hallway of Gabriel's mansion.

It was unique.

More than that, it was a lead.

She dug deep in her pockets. Only a couple of quarters left. Not enough for the subway. She'd have to walk, then. At least until she'd put enough distance between herself and her apartment that she could safely search for a telephone.

Two hours later, satisfied that she'd lost herself in the city's labyrinthine streets and alleys, she ducked into a phone booth. With a quick prayer, she dropped in one of the quarters and punched in Joe's number. Then she turned her back to the street, hunched her shoulders, and prayed for a miracle.

"Office of the District Attorney."

"Yes." Did she sound nervous? She cleared her throat and tried again. "Is Joe Maxwell there?"

"Who shall I say is calling?"

"It's Diana Bennett. I'm with the police department. It's an emergency."

"Hold please."

The line clicked over to canned music, and Diana stifled a curse. Of all times to be put on hold . . .

"Miss Bennett. Where are you calling from?"

The voice was male, and professional, but it wasn't Joe's. Diana stiffened, her fingers tightening on the handset. "Who is this? I need to speak to Joe Maxwell."

"He's tied up in court," the voice said smoothly. Too smoothly. "Tell me where you are. I'll send someone to pick you up."

Was it possible that Gabriel had men in the District Attorney's office? Was he really that powerful, that insidious? Her stomach twisted as she remembered John Moreno. If Gabriel could control the district attorney himself . . .

She slammed the phone into its cradle and pushed out of the booth, the door bouncing back on its hinges with the force of her shove.

Outside, she glanced left and right, scanning pedestrians and vehicles alike for signs of pursuit. Her instincts told her she hadn't been spotted, but she wasn't stupid enough to stick around while they traced her call. With a quick glance behind her, she darted into the nearest alley.

It was time to get lost again.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Oblivious to the watching cameras, the hum of electricity, and the cold and barren cell, Vincent sat on the floor, studying his son's face and talking softly to him, his voice too low to be picked up by Gabriel's microphones. Color was already returning to the pale skin, and Vincent no longer felt the looming presence of death.

With the tip of his finger, he smoothed a frown from his son's small brow, smiling softly when the baby curled closer to him in his sleep.

"His name's Julian."

Instantly alert, Vincent looked up into a pair of dark eyes devoid of emotion.

Gabriel.

The baby began to cry, and Vincent murmured a quiet reassurance as he got to his feet and pressed his back against the rough stones. When he looked back up, a silent snarl pulled his lips back against his teeth.

"Some names have power," Gabriel said, ignoring Vincent's animosity, "but you know that, don't you." His hands hung at his sides, open and relaxed. "Vincent." A tight, thin-lipped smile twisted his angular features. "It means conqueror. But you already know that, don't you."

Gabriel leaned against the wall, tucked his hands into his pockets, and crossed his ankles as though settling in for a friendly chat. "Ordinary men write their names in water. But each generation there are a few . . ." His eyes traveled over Vincent. ". . . stronger than the rest, who write their names in blood." He indicated the baby with a quick jerk of narrow chin. "My son will be a man like that."

"Gabriel . . ." Vincent's low voice rumbled through the room like distant thunder as he enunciated each word with angry precision, his arms tightening protectively around the baby. "You have no son."

Gabriel straightened, the coldness in his eyes replaced by fury as he crossed to the opposite wall. He pressed a button, and a buzzer sounded somewhere over their heads. Immediately, the door at the top of the stairs opened. Vincent recognized the nurse and two of the men, but there were new faces, too. One man, balding and nervous, carried a medical bag.

"It's been long enough," Gabriel said. "Remove the child."

One of the guards stepped to the circuit box. An instant later, the hum of electricity ceased, and the man with the medical bag started to unlock the door. Vincent held his son close against his chest, fury rising in him like a red tide. He roared his defiance.

Gabriel's voice exploded into the sudden startled silence. "Lucas! Reed!"

Two of the men raised their rifles, but Vincent cared not for the danger. His sole concern was the child he held in his arms, the child who, awakened by Vincent's roar, now watched him in trusting silence. Gabriel stepped closer to the bars and addressed him in low, menacing tones.

"I want the child. The doctor wants another blood sample." He gestured at the armed men. "If you resist, they'll fire." His eyes settled pointedly on the baby. "But not at you." Slowly, he raised his gaze to meet Vincent's. "Do we understand each other?"

Vincent looked from Gabriel to the two men. Their weapons weren't aimed at him. They were aimed at his son. He felt the blood thirst rising up in him, felt the beast demanding its freedom. He ached to set it free, to let it rip Gabriel's still beating heart from his chest and grind it, bloody and warm, into the dirty concrete floor.

Gabriel's plans for his son were undoubtedly dangerous ones, plans that had no basis in love, only in power. And he was a man who would deal harshly with those who got in his way. But was he impulsive enough, and cold enough, to destroy his own dreams just to prove a point?

In his arms, the baby made a quiet sound, drawing Vincent's attention away from Gabriel. The baby was watching him calmly, but Vincent was deeply aware of how vulnerable the child was, how weak. He wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice his own life in the preservation of his son's, but dare he risk his son's? Dare he test this man whose eyes held no hint of humanity?

He _would_ gain his freedom. Somehow he would find a way to bring his son safely home to the tunnels and to Catherine. But right now, for this moment, he knew he must entrust his child to the tall woman who watched him with terror in her dark eyes. He would do so only because there was no other choice. But as he met Gabriel's icy gaze, he made a silent promise that it was only for a short time.

Gabriel nodded with a satisfied smile and turned to the doctor. "Do it."

Vincent watched the man fumble with the keys, waited while the door opened and the nurse edged inside. He smelled her fear, saw her tremble with it as she drew near, but he made no move to hurt her. She was not to blame for the ache in his heart. Instead he hugged his son gently, whispered a last quiet reassurance, and with a final brush of his lips against his son's tender forehead, handed him over.

The nurse left quickly, and Vincent and Gabriel watched her climb the stairs and disappear through the door at the top.

Gabriel turned back with victory in his eyes. "Draw your blood, Doctor."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Sammy spotted her first. He'd set up his hot dog stand on Fourteenth Street and watched for hours, scanning every face, every passer by. Vincent was his friend. The people Below, his family. They'd rescued him from a life on the streets, giving him an education and a future when the world Above had turned its back on him. He would do anything for them. This woman, this Diana Bennett, was important to them, so he would find her.

He'd was almost ready to give up when she finally walked by. Her strides were long, her eyes skipping nervously from place to place as she moved. She had an athletic grace, and Sammy admired her easy confidence as she continued down the street and away from him.

He picked up his radio and flicked a button. "Got her," he said. "She's traveling west along Fourteenth."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Gabriel leaned back in his chair, his eyes on the images displayed on the row of video screens in front of him. Vincent still sat on the floor of his prison with his knees drawn up and his back against the stone wall, his gaze fixed on the steps and the doorway beyond. As far as Gabriel could tell, he hadn't moved from that position since they'd retrieved Julian.

"Do you think he sleeps?" he asked. He had his own guess of course, but boredom and fascination led him to ask the question.

"Well, surely he must." The doctor stood just behind Gabriel's right shoulder. Gabriel heard him shift his weight from foot to foot. How had he ever become entangled with such a nervous little man? He made a mental note to replace him at the earliest opportunity.

"Well?"

"The results are the same. The blood is not compatible." Jacobson took a half step back, as though he feared Gabriel's reaction to his words. "A transfusion would be fatal."

Not the answer Gabriel wanted, but anger would solve nothing. "Where would you suggest that we find a blood type that _is_ compatible?"

"There isn't any. The child's blood type is unique."

"I see." Gabriel turned back to the monitors. Vincent had finally moved. He paced the cage, the long-limbed, graceful stride reminding Gabriel of the big cats in their cages outside. "I'm very disappointed, doctor."

Vincent stopped to stare up at the camera closest to his prison. His eyes were fierce, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. Power rippled beneath the tense shoulders, cementing Gabriel's determination to harness that strength for his own ends.

"If my son dies . . ." Gabriel let the thought trail off, confident that his message was clear.

"He's getting stronger." Desperation laced Jacobson's voice, making it sound almost feminine. "I can't find any explanation, but the boy's fever has broken. He's taking some formula. Maybe the illness has run its course, or perhaps there could be some sort of spontaneous remission."

Gabriel didn't look away from the monitors.

"No." He touched Vincent's image with the tip of his finger. "It's him."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Diana glanced over her shoulder. It had been hours since the aborted telephone call, but it felt more like days. She didn't know where to turn. She had no idea where Joe lived or she would have gone there. And she couldn't go to the police station or the court house or her loft, because she was sure they were being watched. She was out of money, hadn't eaten, and she was being followed.

It was a yellow cab, one of the thousands the prowled New York City's streets twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Ordinarily, she wouldn't even have noticed it, but she was hyper-alert, sensitive to the slightest irregularity in the rhythms around her. And this particular cab been keeping pace with her for the past hour.

She had tested it—crossing streets, reversing directions, ducking into alleys—but it always turned up again, distinctive only because of its number and license plate. For the past ten minutes, she'd been trying to decide how best to elude it, and when an accident snarled traffic at the next intersection, she saw her chance. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she broke into a run, zigzagging through pedestrians and around obstacles to duck into a nearby alley.

Almost at once, she realized her mistake. The alley was a dead end, without so much as a dumpster or a fire escape to afford her either hiding place or egress. With a curse, she spun around, scanning frantically for a way out. But there was nothing.

Trapped, she braced herself for a fight as the cab swung into the alley and squealed to a stop. She was scanning the ground for something with which to defend herself when the driver's side door opened and a white-haired cabbie climbed out.

Diana blinked, caught off guard. Gabriel had hired an old man as her assassin? It didn't make any sense.

She stared at the man in confusion, barely aware of the wiry street vendor who ran around the corner behind him and skidded to a stop.

The two men exchanged a glance and began to move in her direction.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Catherine's love and concern reached out to him, even in this hellish place, and Vincent took comfort from it while he searched for some small weakness in the walls of his prison. There'd been a time when a place like this would have destroyed his soul, but now he had everything to live for, every reason to fight. He would not give up, would not succumb to despair, as long as Catherine and his son needed him.

The door at the top of the stairs opened, and Vincent spun around as Gabriel came down the steps. He moved casually, his shoulders relaxed and his hands in his pockets. He looked confident, even arrogant. Vincent waited in ready stillness, his eyes narrowing as he tracked his tormentor, watching him until he came to a stop just inches beyond the charged enclosure.

The two men stared at each other through the bars, neither one speaking, neither one moving, the tension that bound them even more powerful than the electricity that hummed a warning in the icy silence.

Vincent exploded into motion with a roar that reverberated through the room, his claws stretching toward Gabriel's throat faster than the other man could retreat. Gabriel leaped back, his hand going to his throat as raw electricity ripped through Vincent's arm, forcing him away from the bars, away from his prey.

Gabriel's hand came away from his neck with a thin coating of blood, and by the time Vincent picked himself up from the floor, he was straightening his tie.

"I thought you might like to know—"

"My son is recovering. I feel it." Vincent didn't bother to disguise his hatred as he gauged Gabriel's reaction to that news. "I feel _him_."

Frustration and fear lurked behind Gabriel's venomous glare, and Vincent felt a surge of hope. Had he been assured of victory, Gabriel would've had no reason to be afraid.

As though aware that he'd revealed too much, Gabriel spun away. He'd nearly reached the steps when he stopped and turned back as though he'd forgotten something.

"Oh," he said. "By the way . . ."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out something Vincent couldn't see. He tossed it carelessly across the room, and Vincent heard a thin clank of metal against the concrete floor. He didn't look down, refusing to reveal any hint of curiosity.

"I thought you might want that back," Gabriel sneered, "now that the woman is dead."

Vincent waited until he was alone before bending to retrieve the ring. It was the one he'd given to Diana, the one that had led them to Gabriel. He'd warned Catherine that Diana's life would be in danger if they accepted her help, and yet without her, he never would have found his son.

And now she was gone. More blood spilled. But whose fault this time? Gabriel's? Or his own . . .

Vincent looked up at the cameras and roared his fury.


	26. Chapter 26

"Are you Diana?" the cabbie asked cautiously, "Diana Bennett?"

Tense, her weight balanced on the balls of her feet, Diana faced the men who'd chased her into the alley. "Who wants to know?"

"I'm Benjamin," he said, "and this is Sammy. We've been trying to find you."

"Why?"

"We know you're in trouble," Sammy answered, "and we know a place where you'll be safe."

The comment didn't exactly inspire confidence. After all, even the bottom of the East River was a safe place for a corpse. "Why should I trust you?"

Sammy and Benjamin exchanged a glance before Sammy offered her a wry smile. "Do we _look_ dangerous?" He took a step closer. "Look, we don't have much time."

She hesitated, caution warring with exhaustion. Common sense told her the men didn't pose a threat. If they'd been Gabriel's, she'd be dead already. But was she desperate enough to trust a pair of strangers? And in the end, did she really have a choice? Reluctantly, she nodded.

A few minutes later, they guided her into a Byzantine network of tunnels that soon had her completely lost. As they walked, Diana found herself thinking of _Alice in Wonderland_. She'd never thought less of Alice for her tumble into a rabbit hole. After all, who wouldn't chase a white rabbit wearing a waistcoat and carrying a gold pocket watch? But there was no white rabbit here, and the only person she had to blame for this bizarre turn of events was herself.

Her sense of unreality grew as they moved deeper into the maze of concrete, rusty pipes, and rotting beams that led, finally, to a brick-walled section where dust swirled around her feet and thick cobwebs clung to her hair and clothes. Cool, dry air carried the stale odor of a place long undisturbed, and yet Diana heard a low rumble of excited voices just around the next bend. When a group of oddly-dressed people surged forward to greet her arrival, she shrank back against the wall, a stranger in a strange land.

An elderly man stepped forward to greet her, his broad shoulders covered by what looked like a patchwork quilt of leather and fur. "I'm sorry if we frightened you." His gray hair was disheveled, and he leaned on a sturdy wooden cane. "We never meant you harm."

"Who are you?" Maybe Lewis Carroll'srabbit hole was the wrong analogy. Judging by this guy's renaissance-style clothing, Mark Twain's Connecticut Yankee would be more apt.

"When I was part of your world," the man said, "my name was Jacob Wells." He lifted his head, and there was pride in his eyes as he continued. "Vincent is my son."

"We're his family." This was from a young girl of maybe fifteen with an air of self-assurance and wisdom that seemed out of place in someone so young. Diana's eyes settled on the crossbow the girl carried, its business end pointed carefully at the ground.

"His friends," Sammy said.

Diana blinked. "Do you all _live_ down here?" She twitched her nose against a sneeze, and fought the impulse to run her hands through her hair in a quick check for eight-legged hitchhikers.

"Last night you came down into the tunnels," Jacob said, without answering her question. "You called for Vincent. Why?"

How much did they already know? How much had Vincent shared with them? And where was Catherine? Shouldn't she be here? Wouldn't she be concerned as well?

And then she _was_ there, appearing out of the shadows as though conjured by Diana's thoughts. The others made room for her, stepping back out of the way, and Diana read their respect for her in their eyes. But Catherine appeared not to notice, her gaze fastened on Diana as she stepped closer.

"If you know where he is . . . why he left . . . Please."

Diana heard the worry in Catherine's voice and wished she'd come bearing better news. "I brought him a message from Gabriel. His son . . . _your_ son . . . is sick. He may even be dying."

Catherine turned pale, but it was Jacob who spoke, his voice harsh with fear.

"Oh, dear God."

Diana looked at him, unable to face Catherine's pain, unwilling to acknowledge the envy that curled, snake like, in her stomach. "He surrendered himself," she said, "to save the child's life."

Catherine shrank back from the words. "No . . ."

"Gabriel has men inside the police department." She wanted to help these people, but what could she do with no weapon and no way to get to Joe? "They're everywhere. I don't know who to trust. They took my gun. My badge is back at my loft . . ."

Jacob glanced a question at Catherine, who nodded slightly in response. Diana continued, wondering about the meaning of the silent exchange.

"They've completely cut me off. I have no money, no clothes . . ."

Jacob whispered something to the girl with the crossbow. The girl's eyes settled on Diana for a moment, her gaze coolly assessing. Then she turned and left at a run.

"If they find me they'll kill me," Diana said.

"Is there anything else you can tell us?" asked Jacob. "Anything at all?"

"There's this." Diana pulled a scrap of paper out of her pocket. It was a piece of a wadded up napkin she'd picked up in an alley. The figure she'd sketched on it was rough, drawn with the worn nub of a discarded pencil. "It's from Gabriel's mansion. A tile pattern."

The others crowded around to look.

"The pattern's very unusual," Diana said, thankful for the blue-collar father who'd spent a lifetime in the flooring business. "Very old. I think if we can find the pattern, we'll be able to find Gabriel." Diana met and held Jacob's gaze. "I need to get this drawing to Joe Maxwell."

"No problem." Sammy looked up from the paper. "I'm in and out of there all the time, delivering sandwiches."

"No." Catherine shook her head before Diana could respond. "It's too dangerous. They'll be watching Joe."

"In that case . . ." Jacob folded the drawing and tucked it in his pocket. "I'll take it myself."

Diana didn't object. He stood a far better chance of getting to Joe than she did. "Do you know the meaning of _Veritas de liberat?_"

"_Veritas_ . . . ?" He thought about it for a moment. "Yes. The truth will set you free."

The teenager returned with a small bundle wrapped in dark fabric. She looked from Father to Catherine, a question in her eyes. Catherine took the bundle with a word of thanks and handed it to Diana.

Bewildered, Diana pulled the fabric aside. A handgun. She checked the chamber. Loaded. The weapon was clean and well-maintained. But whose was it? And what was it doing down here?

"Mine." Catherine's chin was raised, and her gaze held a mild challenge.

"She brought it to me," Jacob said, "during a time of great danger." Something passed between him and Catherine, some dark memory, and Jacob touched her arm—though whether in reassurance or in warning, Diana couldn't tell. "Now the danger is elsewhere."

Diana looked from Jacob to Catherine, her thoughts a jumble of questions. But this wasn't the time to ask. "Thank you."

Catherine took a step closer. "I can't go up there. If I did, it would endanger everything Vincent is trying to protect." Her fingertips brushed against the sleeve of Diana's jacket. "But he's my _life_, my _world_. And he's up there someplace, alone, trying to find our son. Please . . . Bring him back to me."

For a long moment, Catherine held Diana's gaze, and there was so much love in the gray eyes, so much fear and worry, that Diana was forced to look away.

"I'll do my best," she said. And though she envied what Vincent and Catherine had, and doubted she would ever have such a love of her own, she determined that she would do whatever it took to bring these two back together.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Gabriel's fingers curled around the arms of his chair, the tips pressing deep into soft leather that already bore lasting imprints. He gazed at the monitors, watching his reluctant houseguest. Energy and tension emanated from Vincent in waves that Gabriel imagined he could almost see roiling, blood red and frothing, across the airwaves.

"I told him she was dead." He couldn't believe that Pope had failed. Pope never failed. "Are you making a liar of me?"

"No, sir." The denial came quickly. "It's only a matter of time."

"When it's over, bring her here. I want him to see her." Gabriel imagined the expression on Vincent's face when he viewed Diana's broken body, and his grip on the armrests relaxed as a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "I want him to learn." He glanced up from the monitors, meeting Pope's gaze. "The truth will set him free."

"Gabriel!" Vincent's voice carried clearly into the room.

"I'm here, Vincent." Gabriel's microphone was turned off, so Vincent couldn't possibly hear him. And yet he reacted as though he could.

"I can feel your eyes on me."

"Does that make you uneasy?" Gabriel wondered aloud.

"I can feel my son, too."

He sounded proud, triumphant even. Cold fury burned in Gabriel's stomach. Even caged, Vincent was a formidable enemy.

"Our bond is growing stronger, Gabriel."

"There's only one bond that counts," Gabriel said, almost to himself. He hit a button, opening the mike. "_I_ gave this child life."

Vincent spun toward the sound, his growled response fierce. "_Catherine_ gave him life."

"I kept her alive for months when a word would've ended it. I was there when Julian was born." Electrified steel bars gave Gabriel the confidence to goad his opponent. "The first time he opened his eyes, he looked at _me_." Vincent's strength and determination fascinated him. How satisfying it would be to harness that power. "He's mine."

"He'll never be yours." Vincent glared at him through the monitors, the peculiar intensity of his eyes disconcerting even from a distance. "Hour by hour. Minute by minute. Our bond grows. And nothing you do can stop it."

"Your death would stop it."

"Death," Vincent said quietly, "shall have no dominion."

And yet, there was a headstone in the graveyard that seemed to indicate otherwise. Gabriel shook his head. "Tell that to Catherine Chandler."

"She knew it. Even at the end. She knew—"

With a flick of the wrist, Gabriel turned off the monitors, cutting Vincent's voice off mid-sentence.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Joe couldn't believe what he was hearing. First Cathy and now Diana? "So what you're telling me is that there's no trace of her."

Hughes shook his head. "We'll keep looking, but I'm not holding my breath. The guys who grabbed Bennett were pros."

Joe folded his arms across his chest and eyed the detective. "And what the hell are you, the campfire girls?"

"Look, Joe."

"No, _you_ look, Greg—"

The office door opened to admit the new assistant. She hesitated at the threshold, glancing uneasily between the two men. "Joe, there's a man out here insisting that he has to see you."

Joe cast an irritated look toward the outer office. "Tell him to come back tomorrow."

"He says it's urgent."

"Andrea, the office is closed." Impatience made the words sharper than they might ordinarily have been. "Give him an appointment."

She hesitated. "He says he has information about Vincent."

Vincent. The name was like a lightning bolt connecting the unknown visitor with Cathy and Diana. "Bring him in." He glanced at Greg. "Maybe you better stick around for a minute for this." He turned back to the door in time to see the old man from the cab step inside. "On second thought," he said, without taking his eyes off his visitor. "I think I'd like a minute alone with Mr. . . ."

"Wells. Jacob Wells."

Joe waited until the door closed behind Greg and Andrea. "You're very lucky you're not under arrest, Mr. Wells." He gestured at the chairs in front of his desk. "Have a seat."

"There's no time for that, Mr. Maxwell." Jacob took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and held it out to Joe. "Here."

Puzzled, Joe unfolded the paper. It was a penciled drawing, some kind of abstract sketch. "What the hell is this?"

"A pattern of a floor tile. From the home of the man who tried to kill Catherine Chandler. The man who murdered Elliot Burch."

Joe sank into his chair. How the hell . . .?

"Diana Bennett said you'd know what to do with it."

"Diana—" Just how much did this guy know? "Diana Bennett's been missing since last night when she was taken out of a diner at gunpoint. If you know her whereabouts—"

Jacob lifted a hand, stopping Joe mid-sentence. "I know she's safe. I also know we're running short of time."

Joe scrubbed a hand through his hair. He was Joe Maxwell, District Attorney of Manhattan. And he was starting to think the damned sandwich guy knew more about what went on in this city than he did. "Why am I listening to you?"

Jacob stepped closer and looked Joe in the eye. "Because Catherine wants you to."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent sat on the floor, one long leg stretched out along the concrete, the other drawn up against his chest. It was late. Beyond his cell, the world slept. Catherine slept as well. He knew it the same way he knew that somewhere over his head their infant son also slept, though neither rested easily. He rested his arm on his upraised knee and stared at the steps that led to freedom, but his thoughts weren't on his captivity. They were on the many ways in which Catherine had changed him, bringing her warmth and tenderness into what had been a cold a lonely life.

The door at the top of the stairs opened, and Vincent got to his feet as Gabriel came down the stairs. He had three men with him. All of them carried weapons.

"We have so much in common," Gabriel said, his voice almost regretful as he came to a stop just beyond the bars. The guards lined up next to him, weapons raised and pointing at Vincent.

"We could've been great friends."

Vincent stared at the guns, his mind awash in thoughts of Catherine and their son. To never see his son grow to manhood, to lose what he and Catherine had so painstakingly built . . . Every fiber of his being cried out against it. A roar of denial built in his throat, bursting forth just as Gabriel turned to his men.

"Fire."

_No!_ Vincent jerked away from the bars, covering his face as the guns erupted in an explosion of sound both louder and more terrifying than anything he'd ever heard before.

But it was only noise.

The smoke cleared slowly, leaving behind a caustic odor that burned the back of Vincent's throat.

"Leave us," Gabriel said, without taking his eyes from Vincent's

Vincent waited, chest heaving, hands curled into fists at his sides, ignoring the men who seemed only too pleased to make their escape up the creaking wooden stairs. His muscles—arms and legs, back and chest—coiled tight, ready to spring. And in his mind, the beast demanded vengeance.

Only after the door at the top of the stairs swung closed did Gabriel approach the bars.

"It doesn't have to end that way," he said quietly. "Even enemies can join hands." He looked around the room, his gaze coming to rest on the manacles that chained Vincent to the wall. "I have so much to offer you. Your life. Your freedom."

This . . . man didn't know how to give, only how to take—his son, Steven and Sam, Catherine's faith in herself, her strength . . . "Nothing you can give me can replace what you took."

Gabriel's eyes locked on Vincent's. "Love."

"You don't know the meaning of love." Vincent spoke through gritted teeth, his hold on the Other dangerously close to the breaking point.

"Julian needs both of us."

"My son," Vincent snarled, "needs nothing from you. You have nothing to give."

"I can protect him. I can show him the way the world works. The _real_ world." Gabriel twisted his ring around his finger. "I can make him a king."

"I've seen your kingdom. It's a kingdom of shadows. A kingdom of death."

"It's _our_ kingdom, Vincent." Gabriel pulled a small device from his pocket and pushed a button. Images flickered to life on the wall at Vincent's back. "Julian will see this one day." He gave Vincent another one of his thin-lipped smiles. "It's important that a boy know who his father is."

He started up the stairs, but as he reached the top he pressed another button, and suddenly Vincent was assaulted with the sounds of his own rage. He staggered back, hands pressed against his ears while Gabriel slipped through the open door, leaving him to face his demons alone.

Horrific sounds slammed against the concrete walls and reverberated off the steel bars of Vincent's prison—the agonized screams of the dead and dying, the dull crunch of shattered skulls, the wet, sucking sounds of evisceration, and the muffled thud of crushed bodies dropped, rag-like, to the floor. All of it overlaid with furious roars and sporadic bursts of gunfire.

But the images . . . the images were worse, and Vincent closed his eyes against them, against the slavering jaws, the bodies tossed aside like discarded toys, the claws that ripped through soft bellies and vulnerable necks. A panicked guard begged for mercy while the Other bore down on him with relentless fury. Another brought up his weapon, only to have the Other rip it from his hands and use it to crush his skull.

Blood splattered against the camera lens, dripped down the walls, and pooled in the stair wells. Blood, thick and dark, oozed through the Other's fingers and stained its cloak as it ripped each victim apart with brutal efficiency, disemboweling some and throwing others to the ground with broken necks, their faces contorted in pain or frozen forever in terror.

Trapped in his cell, Vincent was helpless against the relentless onslaught, unable to avoid reliving that night in gruesome detail—the night he'd first tried to rescue Catherine from Gabriel. He remembered all of it. Every moment. Every sound. Every smell. All of it engraved on his mind for all eternity.

With a tortured roar, he charged the bars and wrapped his hands around the cold steel, desperate to bring an end to the torment. Electricity surged through him, but he just snarled again and yanked. Sparks flew, and he was thrown back against the wall, the smell of burned flesh rising from his hands. In an instant, he was back on his feet, mouth open, teeth bared. Again he approached the bars, and again he was thrown back. Beyond the steel barrier, Gabriel's recording continued to play, the terrible battle repeating itself in an endless, soul-destroying loop.

His desperation rose with each death-cry, each cracked skull and splash of blood, until finally he sank to the floor.

And did not rise again.

**xXx**

**xXx**

"Catherine?"

They were in Father's library. She'd been helping him assemble the maps when she'd suddenly frozen, her hand in midair, beset by a sudden, pounding headache and the conviction that Vincent was in trouble.

Father's hand on her arm brought her back to herself. "Tell me."

She met his worried gaze. "Something's wrong."

"Vincent?"

"I don't know." Distracted, she turned away. "I'm sorry, Father. I have to go." She was barely aware of his response as she hurried from the library.

Several minutes later she found herself at the Central Park entrance. It was raining, and she'd come without her cloak, but she had no desire to venture further. Instead she stopped, her eyes on the falling rain, her thoughts and heart with the man she loved more than life.

_Don't give up, Vincent. Please . . . Don't ever give up. I'm here. I'm coming. _

_I love you._

**xXx**

**xXx**

Gabriel saw Vincent's collapse, but he kept his face expressionless, unwilling to reveal his triumph. He'd had doubts, had wondered, for a time, whether he was tilting at windmills, fighting a battle when he'd already lost the war. But the recording had accomplished what mere words could not, forcing Vincent to confront his true nature.

Guilt was a weakness. Compassion a failing. Both prevented Vincent from fulfilling his destiny. A few more sessions like this one would bring him to his knees. Soon, he would beg for mercy.

And then? Then he would belong to Gabriel.

Jacobson stood at Gabriel's elbow, a nervous presence that itched at Gabriel's skin like an irritating rash. "He's going to kill himself."

"No." Gabriel didn't turn from the monitors. "He won't die." On the screen, Vincent lay still, his head buried in his arms, apparently oblivious to the continuing parade of images and sounds. "He's not afraid of pain."

Jacobson folded his arms across his chest. "Perhaps he's not intelligent enough to comprehend his own mortality."

"He's more intelligent than you are, Doctor." Gabriel glanced at Jacobson before turning his eyes back to Vincent's inert body. "And less mortal. No. The only thing _he's_ afraid of is himself."

"You sound like you envy him."

Envy wasn't precisely the word Gabriel would have chosen. "Do you feel sorry for him, Doctor?" Gabriel picked up the remote and turned up the sound, and the room filled with the sounds of Vincent's fury. "Don't."

Vincent's inert body gave no hint that he was aware of what transpired around him. Was he even conscious? Or had he finally succumbed to exhaustion and despair?

"The day will come when he'll watch himself with pleasure." Gabriel smoothed the tip of his finger across Vincent's image, the motion almost reverent. "He'll savor every murder, and polish the memories like precious gems."

Jacobson shifted from foot to foot, his hands first behind his back, then at his sides, then fiddling restlessly with his tie. Gabriel was finding the man's squeamishness increasingly tiresome, and he made a mental note to bring an end to their relationship.

His death would be the perfect object lesson for Vincent.

"Life and death make a perfect circle," he said, imagining the scene in his mind, "like a ring that has no beginning and no end. It's a serpent eating its own tail forever. Violence feeds on violence. Murder on murder. Vengeance on vengeance. Century after century."

Gabriel laced his fingers together and rested them beneath his chin, his eyes on Vincent's unmoving form. "Through all eternity."


	27. Chapter 27

The copy machine was still spitting out duplicates of Diana's drawing when Joe faced the silent group of detectives and street cops that had assembled in his office. He picked up a handful of the copies and started passing them out, moving quickly from person to person.

"I want you guys to talk to building supply retailers, importers, flooring contractors—anyone who deals with tile flooring in any way. Cover all the bases. Also real estate brokers. We're talking about a big ticket house here, so check with all the guys who pull down the million dollar commissions first. Also cleaning services. Tax appraisers. Insurance companies. Any questions?"

There were none, and with a quick jerk of his head, he sent them on their way.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Gabriel gripped the paper that Pope had brought him, his knuckles white with anger. They stood in the hallway just outside the nursery, and when Gabriel looked down, his eyes came to rest on an image that was a perfect match to the one he held in his hand.

"There are copies all over the city," Pope said. "Maxwell has half the NYPD out on the streets." He shook his head. "It must be that woman."

Bennett. The name tasted like bile in Gabriel's throat. He would not allow her to ruin his carefully laid plans. "The woman who should be dead by now."

Faced with the undeniable fact of his failure, Pope's gaze slid away. "Somehow she's gotten to Maxwell."

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "I thought you had Mr. Maxwell under surveillance."

"We do, but—"

With a muttered oath, Gabriel crumpled the paper into a ball and flung it away. "No more buts. Let Maxwell lead you to her. Then eliminate them both."

**xXx**

**xXx**

When the telephone rang, Joe snatched it up, loosening his tie with his free hand. He listened for a moment, and then cursed. "No, we can't wait for the guy to get back from his honeymoon!" Andrea gave him a questioning look from the doorway, and he waved her inside while he listened to the detective. "What, they don't have phones in Italy? Fax him the drawing! I want an answer!"

He glanced down at the paper Andrea handed him and mouthed a thank-you as she backed out and closed the door.

"I don't care what time it is there! Do it!" He slammed the phone down and dropped into his chair. Then he glanced at his watch. "Oh, man."

Jacob Wells had given him specific instructions. Joe was to meet a cab downstairs, take it to the Natural History Museum, and wait for Diana to find him. But he was supposed to have been down there five minutes ago. He grabbed his jacket and hit the intercom button. "Andrea, I'm stepping out for about an hour."

The cab was waiting for him, its driver standing beside the open door.

"Are you—?"

The cabbie nodded. "Come on, Mac. Dinosaurs don't wait for nobody."

It took them ten minutes to get to the museum, and another five for Joe to find the exhibit Mr. Wells had told him about. His eyes flitted from one sightseer to the next, searching for Diana's face. She was supposed to meet him here, but there was no sign of her. Had something gone wrong?

"Joe!" She looked exhausted and nervous as she hurried toward him from the other end of the exhibit hall. "Man, am I glad to see you."

Even in sweats, with her hair a mess and fear in her eyes, she was an arresting woman, and as she came to a stop in front of him, Joe realized with a shock that the rush of relief he felt at the sight of her stemmed from something deeper than professional concern.

He shook the feeling off. This wasn't the time.

"So the old man was on the level," he said. "You really had me scared, Diana."

"Me, too." Her eyes skimmed the displays before meeting his again. "You got any leads on those tiles?"

A dark-haired janitor in a gray coverall pushed a bucket up against one of the exhibits and began to mop the floor. Tourists and locals parted around him in the natural and unconscious dance of crowded city life.

"No. Nothing yet."

"Talk to me, Maxwell."

An angry voice distracted him before he could speak. The janitor was glaring at a man in a business suit, a man who had his hand in his pocket as he stared at Joe.

"Hey, pal! Watch where you're walking! I just mopped this floor."

"Pardon me." The man tried to slip around the janitor as Joe instinctively moved in front of Diana.

"Wait a minute." The janitor grabbed the man's arm. "I'm not through talking to you yet."

There was a brief scuffle as two spectators broke away from the passing groups and trapped the man in the business suit between them. "You know what?" one of them asked as he yanked the man's arms behind his back, "I don't like your attitude."

"Now what?" Joe asked. He and Diana crossed the room. "What's going on?"

Diana patted the man down and, with a glance at Joe, pulled a handgun out of his coat pocket. "You got a license for this?"

One of the museum guards approached the group as Joe stared from the gun to Diana in stunned disbelief. Obviously, he'd been followed. Or she had.

"What's the problem?" Feet braced, arms folded across his thick chest, the guard eyed the group. On his belt, a radio crackled as other guards responded to his call.

Joe pulled out his wallet. "D.A.'s office. This guy's got a gun. I want you to hold him until the cops come."

With a brusque nod, the guard handcuffed the man and led him away, ignoring a string of indignant protests. Joe turned back to his unlikely rescuers, his sense of unreality deepening. A cabbie, a street vendor, and a janitor. "Who _are_ you guys?"

The men exchanged a look, and Joe realized they knew each other. But who the hell were they? And what did they have to do with Cathy?

It was the vendor who answered. "Um, just . . . dinosaur fans."

Before Joe could question them further, his pager went off. A quick glance at the number chased the questions from his mind. He looked up at Diana. "It's Hughes. Come on."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent lay on the concrete floor with his face buried in his folded arms, the sounds and images of his own deadly rampage still playing on the walls over his head. He had nearly given up, nearly surrendered to the part of him that struggled for its freedom, the part that reveled in the blood and violence—the Other.

It was Catherine who saved him. Her warmth and courage flowed toward him even in this dark place, and he focused on it, on the strength that returned to him through their connection, using it to control the feral being that threatened to destroy him.

He heard the door at the top of the stairs open and then the tread of footsteps as men approached his cell. But he didn't look up.

"You're not looking well, my friend." Gabriel said. "Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?"

Abruptly, the sounds of battle stopped, replaced by the gentle murmur of a happy infant. Vincent lifted his head.

"Better?" Gabriel asked. On the wall, the baby stretched his arms out toward an unseen cameraman, a look of yearning on his small face. "See? I know how to be merciful." Gabriel handed a set of keys to the doctor but kept his eyes on Vincent. "We need more blood."

Vincent got to his feet and backed against the wall as one of the men turned off the power. Cautiously, the doctor approached the cell door. Vincent inhaled the acrid scent of the man's fear and watched the way his hands trembled as he fumbled with the keys. When he dropped them, Gabriel sighed.

"Lucas, the doctor needs help."

Lucas, wiry and sallow-skinned, nodded and bent to retrieve the keys. A moment later, the lock snapped free, the gate opened, and the doctor entered with his plastic tote. And still Vincent stood in silent watchfulness, refusing to give Gabriel the satisfaction of seeing his anger.

"If you had not come to me, Julian might have died." Gabriel's eyes settled on the doctor, watching him prepare his equipment. "I owe you a life." He turned his gaze to the video that played on the wall. "Look at him, Vincent. Isn't he beautiful?"

Vincent didn't bother to respond. He kept his eyes on Gabriel, ignoring the doctor and his needles, who posed no threat to him.

"Catherine thought he was beautiful, too. I let her hold him just as long as I could."

The blatant lie made Vincent's lips pull back in a low snarl.

"I'm sorry about Catherine," Gabriel said. "She must have been a very special person. Her death . . ." He shrugged. "Well, we all make mistakes."

He took a small device from his pocket and pushed a button. In the sudden silence, his next words seemed unnaturally loud.

"Of course . . . it was the doctor who killed her."

The doctor's hand slipped. The vile he'd been holding skittered across the floor, leaving a dark trail of blood in its wake.

"What was it you used, Doctor?" Gabriel asked, his voice a study in curiosity. "Morphine?" He sighed. "Well . . . at least the end was painless."

The doctor backed away from Vincent, hands raised in a pitiful and useless attempt at self-defense. "No. It wasn't me."

Amusement bubbled through Gabriel's response. "That's not very convincing, Doctor."

The doctor grabbed the bars, white-knuckled and desperate. "Please!" His voice cracked with fear.

Fierce anger threatened Vincent's self-control. He clenched his hands into fists, the nails biting into his skin as he stared at the man who, wild-eyed and desperate, clung to the bars of the cell, begging for mercy. This man had ignored Catherine's pain and fear, had taken her child and then injected her with the drug that nearly killed her. She had begged, as _he_ was begging now, but to no avail. This . . . _doctor_ . . . had left her to die.

The Other demanded its freedom, clamoring for the right to wreak its vengeance on the man who had nearly destroyed the one thing Vincent prized above all others.

"You _told_ me to kill her!" The doctor yelled at Gabriel. "You told me!"

Gabriel watched impassively as the doctor twisted back to Vincent.

"I didn't want to do it." The stench of fear emanated from him in thick clouds, and the Other gloried in it, anticipating the kill. "I didn't want to do it! I swear to you!"

"A life for a life," Gabriel said quietly, his eyes meeting Vincent's. "His life is yours."

The doctor sank to his knees. "Please . . . Please have mercy."

Gabriel shook his head in mock reproof. "Catherine begged for mercy, too."

Vincent growled low in his throat and advanced on the doctor, only dimly aware of the Other's exultation as it sensed his weakening control.

"Go on," Gabriel urged. "Do it. Do it for her. Go on, _do_ it! Do it! _Kill_ him!"

The doctor cowered still further into the corner, tears streaming down a face gone pasty with terror. He lifted shaking hands, palms upward and exposed—a supplicant before the altar of fury.

Vincent thought of Catherine—in pain and afraid as she watched this man prepare a lethal dose of morphine—and another snarl rumbled through his throat. His hands came up, fingers flexed and ready, their movement guided, not by Vincent, but by the beastly _Other_ that roared its triumph in his mind.

Vincent's anger gave the Other power, and it seized control, playing with its prey. Stalking it. Relishing its fear.

And then something, some sense of Catherine—her trust in him, her sense of justice—brought Vincent up short. He stopped, his head coming up and his hands dropping to his sides as he forced the Other back and away so that he could reach out to her through their bond, seeking his humanity in her faith. Her love flowed back to him, surrounding him. Holding him. Calming him.

In the dim recesses of his mind, Vincent heard the Other howl its disappointment.

He inhaled, filling his lungs with air. Then he turned a calm gaze on Gabriel. The man's cheerful expectancy made his stomach churn. That such evil could exist in the world . . .

"No."

Gabriel stared at him in stunned disbelief. For a long second neither man moved, and then Gabriel spun toward one of his men. "Get him out of there!"

Vincent watched in silence as the door opened and the doctor rushed out, leaving his plastic tote and the spilled vial where they lay. The gate clanged shut behind him.

At the foot of the stairs, Gabriel paused.

"Vincent."

Vincent looked up, and Gabriel gestured casually to one of his men. In a single swift move, the guard lifted his gun, aimed it at the doctor, and fired.

The doctor collapsed against the bars of Vincent's prison, and Gabriel met Vincent's eyes as the smell of death permeated the room.

"I _always_ pay my debts."

He left, his men following silently in his wake. The doctor's body remained where it had fallen, a silent testament to Gabriel's icy brutality.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Diana listened to Joe's end of the conversation with Greg Hughes. He had a paper and pen with him, and he'd been scribbling furiously since he'd picked up the phone. Oblivious to the unfolding drama, museum visitors ebbed and flowed past the booth in an endless, immutable tide.

"All right, I got it. Good. Thanks a lot, Greg. Listen, we're gonna have to move on this. Get the commissioner on the horn. Meet me back at my office in ten minutes, all right?" There was a pause, and then Joe nodded. "Good. 'Bye."

He hung up and came out of the booth, handing Diana the paper and pen. "Bingo. Tiles are Italian-made. Turn of the century. They cost a fortune. The importer gave us a list of addresses."

Diana read through it. "Montauk Point, Staten Island, Westchester. The rest are all Manhattan."

"Yeah. So?"

"So . . ." She checked the addresses again, thinking back to her trip to Gabriel's mansion. "The chopper flew over water. Montauk Point's too far. It's got to be Staten Island."

"Then let's move." He didn't wait for her answer, his long strides carrying him past the exhibits with distance-eating speed.

She hurried to catch up to him. "Joe . . ."

He stopped and turned, his impatience evident in his folded arms and raised eyebrows.

"This guy is going to have an army waiting for you," she said. "It's going to take you hours to get organized, and by that time he's going to know you're coming."

But there was something _she_ could do right now, something that, if she was very lucky, might win Vincent's freedom before he was seen by anybody else. Without offering Joe any explanations, she headed for the exit.

"What are you going do?" he called.

She turned back. "Whatever I can."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Something about Vincent's manner made Gabriel uneasy. There was a restless energy behind the catlike grace that hadn't there before. It reminded him of the way the jungle cats in his menagerie behaved when they sensed the approach of a summer storm. But the skies were clear, with no rain in the forecast for days. He glanced over at Jonathan Pope and found that his gaze, too, was pinned to the monitors.

"He's growing stronger," Gabriel said. But what was the source of this newfound strength? Had one of the guards slipped him extra food? Had the chef neglected to drug the water? No. It wasn't possible. His people were well aware of the price of betrayal.

"Maxwell's organizing a raid," Pope said. There was an unusual urgency in his voice. "We must evacuate. The sooner the better."

Gabriel didn't take his eyes off the monitors, too fascinated by Vincent to heed the warning. If only he could find a way to harness that power. "You handle it, Pope."

"I've already ordered a helicopter. And your Learjet is standing by at Kennedy."

"Look at him," Gabriel said. "Those bars are tungsten steel." He glanced at Jonathan. "Order another generator in case of emergencies. If the current should fail . . ."

"Just kill him. And let's go. Before the police come."

Even Pope didn't understand Vincent's value. Disappointing. "Police don't concern me."

Pope studied Gabriel, eyebrow raised. "Forgive me, sir . . . but which of you is the captive here?"

"In ancient days," Gabriel said, ignoring the question, "men ate the hearts of fallen heroes, hoping that their power and strength would pass into them. On cold battlefields, steam would rise from their open chests. The heart would smoke in your hand. Dark with blood. Still beating. Almost as if—"

Something about the quality of the silence interrupted his train of thought, and he stopped talking to look around.

"Pope!"

There was no answer. With a final regretful glance at the monitors, Gabriel reached out and flipped a switch. Then he watched, as one by one, the screens went dark.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Greg Hughes stood next to Joe at the small conference table in Joe's office. They'd been poring over maps until Joe thought his eyes might cross, but they'd finally sorted out the best plan of attack. Now he jabbed his finger at the maps as he talked, firing off rapid instructions to the group of uniformed men and women who'd crowded into the room for their assignments.

"I want units here," he pointed, "here and here. Seal every road that goes near the place. And keep the civilians back. We could have heavy resistance."

One of the detectives spoke up. He was a short man with the wrinkled face and settled paunch that spoke of too many years behind a desk. "City engineers say they have a helipad behind the main house."

"Then I want choppers," Joe said. "Nobody gets out. Got it?"

He scanned the group, accepting a series of nods before turning to the chief of police.

"Your men have to get over these walls fast." Joe pointed at the razor-wire topped brick walls that surrounded the estate.

"No problem." The chief was ex-military. When he said it'd be no problem, he meant it.

"All right," Joe said. "That's it. We hit 'em as soon as it gets dark."

**xXx**

**xXx**

It was indicative of the strange turns Diana's life had taken that even though she had the entire New York City Police Department at her disposal, she turned to a rag-tag group of social misfits for help. And now she found herself speeding through the city in the company of a man time had forgotten and a woman who wore a heavy woolen cloak straight out of _Camelot_.

She shook off the surreality of the situation and peered at the maps Jacob had unfolded across his lap.

"What about the sewer lines?"

Jacob flipped pages, chose a different map, and rifled through that. He pointed, and Diana leaned in for a closer look.

"If you take this branch of the main off Gaston Avenue, it could get . . . no, it doesn't. You see, it does _not_ go right through."

"Wait a minute." Diana touched a spot just beyond the tip of his finger. "What's this? This line goes right under the wall."

Jacob shook his head. "That's just an old steam main. It's inactive of course, but it's barely even a pipe. The diameter's nothing."

"Can I fit?"

Father and Catherine studied the map for a moment, and Catherine gave Diana an assessing glance. "Barely." She turned to Father. "But _I_ can make it."

Catherine _was_ smaller, but the risks . . .

"If Gabriel sees you, he'll kill you." Diana's lips quirked in a slight smile. "And then Vincent would kill me. No." She shook her head. "It has to be me."

"But you've already risked so much," Catherine said. "How can we ask you to do more?"

"You aren't asking. I'm volunteering. Besides, I don't think we have a choice."

Father nodded. "She's right, Catherine. It has to be her. What if, God forbid, Vincent doesn't make it out of there alive, but your son does?"

Catherine's frustration was obvious in the set of her shoulders and the tight line of her mouth, but she didn't argue. Instead, she leaned forward to speak with their driver, a man Diana recognized from her aborted escape through the city.

"Those pipes are old," Jacob said, "and most likely very rusty. Keep your head down, and be careful not to touch anything. One wrong move could bring it all down on top of you."

He rolled up the maps and tucked them back into their cardboard tube. "Do you have any idea where he might be keeping Vincent?"

Diana shook her head. She glanced at Catherine, who was still talking with the cabbie, and lowered her voice. "I only hope he hasn't killed him already."

Catherine turned back, overhearing the comment despite Diana's attempt at circumspection.

"He's alive," she said. "I'd know if he wasn't." She gazed out the window. "But if the police get there before we do . . ."

_Vincent's life would be over. _The thought made Diana shudder. If the police got there first, Gabriel would have won. She wasn't going to let that happen.

A few minutes later, the cab pulled to a stop in a deserted alley, and the three of them got out. Father hurried over to a rusty manhole cover.

"Go straight for one mile," he said, lifting it with a grunt and rolling it out of the way. "Then turn east. That'll be your right." He helped her find her footing on the ladder that disappeared into the darkness.

"Here," Catherine said, handing her a flashlight, "you'll need this."

Diana took it with a nod of gratitude.

"Be careful," Catherine said, "and tell Vincent . . ." She lifted her chin as though daring Diana to judge her. "Tell him I love him."

Diana smiled. "You can tell him yourself in a few minutes." She started down the ladder as Father started to replace the manhole cover.

"Godspeed," he said.

Then the heavy grate rolled into place, and Diana was alone in the darkness.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Catherine was close. Vincent could feel her presence. The end of his captivity was near, and he need only keep their son safe until help arrived. He looked up as the door opened to admit Gabriel, alone this time.

"The police are coming," Gabriel said, his pace and tone nonchalant as he came down the stairs.

"Let them come." It didn't matter now. Catherine would be there soon. If something happened to him, their son would still have his mother.

"If they find you, they'll kill you." Gabriel watched him, obviously puzzled by his lack of concern. "Or maybe they won't. Maybe they'll just leave the monster in his cage for the rest of his life."

Vincent shook his head. "Your words have no more power, Gabriel." He tilted his head and voiced a deeper truth. "_You're_ the only monster here."

"Nothing happens by accident," Gabriel said in a tight, clipped voice. He stepped close to the bars. "The woman? The child? That was meant to be. Our destinies are linked. Yours. Mine. Julian's."

Once again, Gabriel had misjudged his adversary's speed and ferocity. A burst of rage propelled Vincent toward the bars, and Gabriel stumbled back, his hand going to the fresh wound at his throat. Blood oozed between his fingers, but he appeared unconcerned. He smiled, turned, and left Vincent alone.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Father touched the cab driver on the shoulder. "Here, please." The car pulled over, and Father and Catherine climbed out. "There's an entrance nearby," Father said, "but we'll have to hurry."

Catherine nodded and adjusted her hood, glancing around as they hurried across the street and into an abandoned building. Father led her down a staircase, and she helped him pull a heavy cabinet out of the way to reveal an opening in the wall. Inside there were more stairs, followed by dark tunnels filled with cobwebs, fallen concrete, and rusty pipes. They had to slow down then because the way was rough, the floor strewn with debris.

Catherine's sense of urgency grew with each passing moment. She felt a desperate need to get to Vincent and their son, to protect them. Nothing else mattered.

The nurse sprang to her feet when Gabriel entered the quiet room, but he ignored her and crossed to the crib.

"Do you believe in destiny?" His eyes were on Julian, but his words were meant for the uneasy nurse. "I know the power of love." He reached down, fingering the edge of a blanket while he talked.

"There was a girl. She was sixteen. Two years older than I was." He released the blanket in favor of the tiny fingers, remembering the girl's perfect almond eyes and silken skin. "So beautiful. I loved her desperately." He did glance over at the nurse then, but only for a moment. "She was the first person I ever killed." The shock in the nurse's eyes confirmed that she didn't understand, but he was used to that look. Only Snow had ever understood the truth—that by killing Mina, Gabriel had preserved her beauty forever.

The nurse backed away. Her fear was meaningless, and he ignored her, his attention already back on his son. He heard her leave the room, the door slamming in her wake, but he didn't go after her. Instead, he reached for the small pillow that was tucked into a corner of the crib. Lifting it to his face, he drew the scents of baby shampoo and talcum powder deep into his lungs.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent was so accustomed to his bond with Catherine that at first he thought _she_ was in danger. Only it wasn't her at all. She was safe. Her love surrounded him, its steady light supporting him as he paced the confines of his cell.

He stilled, reaching out to the ones he loved.

No. Not Catherine. This was different. Helpless. Innocent.

Their son.

He knew instantly that he was right, as uncomprehending terror, brilliant white and ice cold, exploded in his mind.

He roared and surged forward, pulling, rending, struggling against the bars that separated him from his son. Raw electricity coursed through him, burning his skin and hair before throwing him back into the unforgiving stone wall. The gate held, defying him, keeping him trapped and helpless while his son's life was in danger.

He would not be defeated. _Could_ not.

He leapt to his feet and sprang back to the bars. Again he pulled, muscles straining, feet braced wide as he redoubled his attack. There was no time for thought. No time for pain. There was only the instinctive and overwhelming drive to protect his child.

The charged bars forced him back again and again, but each time he picked himself up and rushed the cell door again. He sensed the steel weakening—saw it in the showers of sparks, and heard it in their protesting screech. His hands were bloody and burned, his cloak torn, his body bruised—and still he fought.

There was no other choice.

He crashed to the floor once more, his head slamming against the wall. The force of the blow stunned him, but he was up again in an instant. He drew in a breath, his chest expanding with oxygen. With a roar, he threw himself at the bars again, rushing at them with all of his strength, his power fed by anger and fear.

At last, the bars gave way with a brilliant cascade of sparks as the entire gate came free in his hands. He threw it aside and charged across the room. Behind him, the gate crashed to the floor, announcing his freedom. Two guards appeared at the top of the stairs, guns drawn, but the threat meant nothing to Vincent. He tossed the men aside without slowing down, ignoring their screams of pain.

The door opened into a vast, gleaming kitchen, and Vincent paused, listening. Reaching out with his mind. The danger was still there, a menacing blackness that threatened his child's life. With a snarl, he spun toward the nearest doorway just as a man entered, gun raised and pointing at his head.

Vincent gave himself up entirely, let go . . . let himself become the thing inside that he had fought for so long. _He_ might not be able to save his son. But _It_ could.

The Other bellowed a challenge, and the man shrank back, the gun falling to the floor as he raised his hands to his ears.

Vincent might have granted the man his life.

The Other would not.

It leapt easily across the intervening distance and slashed the man's throat, loosing a spray of blood that soaked into its cloak. Uncaring, it ran on, leaving the body to slump to the floor.

There were more guards, but the Other never slowed down, never hesitated for longer than it took to dispatch the next trembling and terrified obstacle. But the danger was growing faster than the Other could move. Death was near. The Other took the stairs four at a time, hesitated for a single heartbeat, swung left, and sprinted down the hall.

A closed door loomed ahead, and the Other burst through it, hardly noticing when the thick wood shattered, sending deadly shards of wood flying in all directions.

Inside, Gabriel leaned over an antique crib, his hands busy with something the Other couldn't see. At the Other's entrance, he looked up, his eyes widening in surprise. In his hands he held a small pillow.

The Other was across the room in two long strides. It spun Gabriel away from the crib, the ferocity of its attack sending him crashing against the wall hard enough to crack the plaster, unleashing a spider web of fault lines and a fog of choking white dust. The thirst for blood sang in the Other's veins as it advanced on its prey. No longer the prisoner, the supplicant, the beggar . . . _It_ had the power now. _It_ was in control.

And it would have its vengeance.

It raised its hands, claws bared and ready, a snarl rumbling from its throat as it stalked the man who had thought himself the hunter—the man who had stolen the Other's child and tried to kill its mate.

On the floor, Gabriel watched, defiant and unafraid. In his eyes was a look the Other recognized. Triumph.

It was Diana who stopped it. Diana who ran into the room when it was almost too late, shouting his name, screaming for him to stop.

"Vincent!"

The Other hesitated, arrested by the urgency in the familiar voice. In an instant, she'd caught his arm, pulling it down, away from Gabriel.

"No!"

A low growl rumbled through the Other's chest as it eyed its fallen enemy. It wanted vengeance. It wanted to make Gabriel cry out for mercy. It wanted to rip Gabriel's beating heart from his chest and crush it between its fingers. But even as it advanced on its prey it sensed a growing weakness as Vincent fought to regain control of their shared consciousness.

It was a silent, solitary duel that was theirs alone to fight, theirs alone to win or lose. It was a battle they'd fought many times before, and one that Vincent had always won, though sometimes the struggle had been fierce. But never before had the Other's thirst for vengeance been this strong. In desperation, Vincent called Catherine's face to mind, her image shimmering faintly behind his closed eyelids. It worked. Faced with the depth of Vincent's love, the Other subsided, a final savage snarl drifting from its throat as it gave way.

Vincent drew in a deep breath, forcing himself to relax, aware of Diana's assessing gaze.

"The child is crying," she said, her attention shifting to Gabriel.

Vincent turned, only now becoming aware of his son's thin, wailing cry. He crossed to the crib, reached inside, and lifted his son into his arms with a low murmur of reassurance. The baby quieted almost at once, and a tense silence fell over the room. Vincent turned back to Diana, uncertainty warring with determination. Must his son's earliest memories be tainted by murder? And yet . . . Gabriel could not be allowed to live.

"There's not a lot of time," Diana said, interrupting his thoughts with a meaningful look. She understood his dilemma, and she was offering him a solution. "Please—just hurry."

Vincent lowered his head, inhaling the sweet scent of his son's skin. What right did he have to allow her to be the one to end the nightmare? And what would happen to her when the police discovered what she'd done?

"Under the building," Diana said urgently. "Father's waiting." She touched his arm, her eyes on the baby's face. "Catherine is with him." Vincent looked up then, his gaze locking on hers. He read the silent message in her eyes. She'd expected this moment, even planned for it. She would do what was necessary to protect Vincent and his son. Reluctantly, he gave her a small, grateful nod. He would accept this gift, but he would never forget the depth of the sacrifice she was about to make on his behalf.

As he crossed the room, Vincent spared a last glance at his adversary. Gabriel's eyes were wide with shock, his mouth open and slack. He hadn't known that Catherine was alive, and he would go to his grave with the knowledge that he had failed. There was justice in that.

Vincent left without a word, his son cradled safely in his arms.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Diana watched in silence as Vincent left the room. When she turned back to Gabriel, the shock was gone, hidden, along with his fear, behind dark eyes that gleamed with victory.

"Thank you," he said. He dropped his head and took a slow breath. "You know what prison is?" he asked, looking back up at her. "It's a place to grow stronger."

She stared at him without speaking. He was handsome in his way—elegant and self-assured. But Vincent's distinctive features were a thousand times more interesting.

Gabriel struggled to his feet. "No court will convict me," he said confidently. "Jurors have families, too." His breathing was shallow, and when he winced, Diana wondered how many ribs Vincent had broken. "And even if they did . . ." He met her gaze, and she shivered at the utter lack of warmth she saw in his eyes. "You can rule the world from a prison cell."

With studied nonchalance, Gabriel brushed himself off and straightened his shirt. "I own nations, Diana. I'll have the child back." He was insufferably smug, unbearably arrogant. "In the end, I _always_ win."

"Not this time, Gabriel." Diana pulled the gun from her pocket, satisfaction welling inside her when his eyes grew wide. She spoke quietly, aware of the venom that laced her mild tones, but doing nothing to hold it back. "This is Catherine Chandler's gun."

She had planned carefully for this. The gloves she wore were of softest leather, the bullets in the gun were new, and she was smart enough to police her brass. When she left here, she would empty the gun, wipe it clean, and throw it in the East River. It seemed fitting, somehow, that Catherine's gun would kill Gabriel and find its final resting place in the same river that had claimed Elliot Burch.

By the time Joe arrived with his army, she would be long gone.

She saw understanding dawn in Gabriel's eyes, saw him recognize the inevitability of his own death. And then, finally, Gabriel was afraid. It was the moment she had been waiting for.

The gun leapt in her hand.

He cried out, pain and surprise mingling in a single sharp sound as the bullet pierced his heart.

Pocketing her weapon, Diana stooped to pick up the empty cartridge. Then she gave the inert form one final glance before turning, and walking away.

It was over.


	28. Chapter 28

Catherine felt his approach before she heard it, and she was already moving when he rounded the corner. The light was behind him, casting his face in shadow, but his shoulders were back and his head was up, and in his arms . . . he carried their son.

She flew to him, tears blurring her vision, and he gathered her in, the baby snug and safe between them.

"I love you," she said, her voice cracking. "I love you so much." They were the only words she could find, and they were at the same time hopelessly inadequate and perfectly precise, summing up the wealth of emotion that swelled in her chest and clogged her throat. How could she begin to tell him how grateful she was to have him back? What words could express her happiness and wonder at their son's safe return?

In the end, she could only repeat herself. "I love you."

"Catherine." His voice, muffled against her hair, was hoarse with emotion and fatigue. "Catherine."

They held each other, their heads bent over the small, warm bundle cradled between them, until tiny fingers tangled themselves in Vincent's hair. He eased back then, and with gentle hands, extricated his son's fingers from the knotted strands before settling the baby in Catherine's arms.

Despite their long search, despite all the times she'd assured Vincent of her confidence that they would find their son, the intensity of the moment stunned Catherine. With trembling fingers, she eased the blanket away from the baby's face. His eyes were open, and he smacked his lips with a damp, cooing sound that made her smile through her tears. Vincent's head was bent over hers once more, and he was whispering her name over and over like an incantation . . . or a prayer.

They were a family—she, and Vincent, and this tiny, perfect being born of their love.

"You're safe now, little one." Catherine brushed the baby's satin-soft cheek with the back of a bent finger. "You're safe."

He blinked, and she could almost believe he understood her words. She tightened her arms around him. He felt like a piece of heaven that she would hold in her heart forever—the physical embodiment of more miracles than she could even begin to count.

Vincent twined his fingers with hers where they rested against the blanket, and for the first time, she noticed the burns on his hands.

"Vincent, you're hurt."

He shook his head, making no move to pull away. "It's nothing."

"Vincent, let me have a look." It was Father. They'd forgotten he was even there, and Catherine looked up apologetically as he reached for Vincent's hands.

But Father only smiled at her, and she saw that his own eyes were damp as he examined the burns. "How did this happen?"

Vincent glanced at Catherine and closed his fingers lightly around Father's. "It doesn't matter. It's over now."

"They need tending," Father said.

Vincent nodded. "We must leave this place," he said, "before we are discovered."

Catherine had momentarily forgotten the danger they were still in. Joe's men might already be searching Gabriel's estate. What would they find? What conclusions would they draw? And what would happen if they discovered the entrance to the tunnels?

She glanced at Vincent and knew he shared her concerns. He touched her elbow, and with Father leading the way, they started walking.

It was time to go home.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Joe raked his fingers through his hair and directed a glare at his office window. He was frustrated. And more confused than he'd been since Cathy had first disappeared all those months ago. He'd taken an army to that godforsaken mansion, but all they'd found were dead bodies and a mystery even more bizarre than any he'd dealt with yet. It could take weeks or even months to make sense of the mess, and the worldwide fallout didn't even bear thinking about.

He'd prepared his men for a war, or at the very least, a battle. But when they'd burst upon the scene, weapons drawn, Kevlar vests in place, there'd been nobody left to fight.

Eventually, they'd figured out that the trail started in the basement. There'd been three dead men there, one of a single rifle blast to the chest, one of a broken neck, and one of what looked like some kind of knife attack.

From there, they'd followed the evidence through the house, photographing and cataloguing each set of remains before moving on. Eventually, they'd arrived in an empty nursery, where they'd discovered Gabriel Konkani dead of a single gunshot wound to the chest. It looked like a small caliber handgun this time rather than a rifle, but whoever had fired it had done so with deadly accuracy.

Joe turned back to his desk. To his left, a metal cart held a television and VCR. He hit a button on the remote control, watching with morbid fascination as images paraded across the screen. They'd found the tape at the Konkani estate, and Joe still had trouble believing his eyes. It was like some kind of horror movie come to life.

"Joe."

He started. He hadn't heard her come in. "Diana."

She closed the door and crossed the room, her gaze going from the television screen to the photos scattered on Joe's desk. "So."

"Yeah," he said. "So." He paused the tape mid-roar. "What do you know about this?"

"Only that it isn't what it looks like."

"It looks like a dozen dead bodies and at least three different MOs. You're telling me that isn't what it is?"

"No." She sighed. "That much is true."

He picked up the photos, tapped them into a loose pile, and dropped them again. "Sit down, Diana."

She perched on the edge of a chair, but she didn't relax, the tension in her shoulders and spine holding her upright and stiff.

"I've got a theory. Wanna hear?"

"Joe . . ."

"No." He grinned, aware that he was dangerously close to losing it, but not caring anymore. "Listen to this. It's a good one. You'll like it."

"Okay." Her response was wary.

He pointed at the TV. "Vincent, right?"

She didn't answer.

"Yeah. That's what I thought. Okay. Here's my theory. This Gabriel guy stumbled across Cathy because of me. And he grabbed her because she knew things, things he didn't want her to know. Then, somehow he found out about this guy." He hooked a finger at the television screen. "Maybe he tried to rescue her or something." He shrugged. "Doesn't really matter. Point is, Konkani finds out that Cathy's pregnant and thinks maybe the kid is Vincent's."

"It _is_ Vincent's, Joe."

"Yeah, yeah. We'll get to that later. Anyway," Joe leaned back, putting his feet up on the desk. "Gabe wants the kid. Maybe he thinks it'll be some kind of superman or something. Or maybe his biological clock is ticking. Hell, I don't know. But he keeps Cathy alive until the baby comes." He flipped through the pictures, pulled one out, and tossed it to Diana. "After that, he figures he doesn't need her anymore so he tells his goons to finish her off."

He pulled his feet off the desk and leaned forward. "Only somebody messed up big time, because Cathy didn't die."

He eyed Diana, but she didn't comment.

"Things get a little murky after that. Somehow Cathy got away from the hospital and went into hiding. And this guy Vincent," Joe tapped another picture, "wanted revenge. Or maybe he just wanted his kid back. And he got to you, somehow, because suddenly you went all James Bond on me. Next thing I know, you're sending me cryptic messages about floor tiles."

Diana refused to look at him, which told him all he needed to know. "You could've trusted me, Diana. Cathy's _my_ friend, too."

She didn't answer, and he blew out a breath. She wasn't making this any easier. "Somehow Vincent winds up in a cage, which—" He shook his head, still not quite able to believe it all, despite the evidence. "Yeah, I can see why Konkani might've figured that was the smart thing to do." He hit the play button, and a raging Vincent tore across the screen. "Then Elliot Burch winds up dead, you wind up with Sammy the sandwich man for a bodyguard, and suddenly some old guy with a cane knows more about this case than _I_ do."

"They're good people, Joe."

He waved that away. "Whatever. Point is, you could've been killed." He paused, waiting until she met his eyes. "_All_ of you."

He folded his arms and leaned back, watching her. "So am I right?"

There was a long moment of silence. Finally, she nodded. "For the most part."

"Where's Cathy now?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Can you at least tell me if she's okay?"

"She's fine."

"And the baby?"

"Also fine."

"Is it . . ." Joe's eyes went to the photos.

Diana raised an eyebrow. "Normal?"

"Yeah."

She gestured at the pictures. "You know as much as I do."

Joe turned back to the TV. "Diana, if this guy . . ."

"He isn't dangerous, Joe. He only kills to protect her."

"So if every Tom, Dick and Harry out there starts killing people to protect their families it'd be okay with you?"

She let out an impatient sigh. "That isn't what I'm saying."

"Then what _are_ you saying? Because it sure looks to me like you're condoning vigilantism here."

"He isn't a vigilante."

"Oh yeah?" He tossed more pictures in her direction. They landed on the floor, scattering into a macabre mosaic of violence. "What do you call this?"

Diana didn't look down. "Self-defense."

"And all those other pictures you showed me? The cases you talked about? Were those self-defense too?"

She didn't answer, and he stood up, kicking the chair away as he started to pace the floor. "I don't know what to do here, Diana."

"Joe . . . you have to let it go."

"Let it go?" Was she _serious_? "Diana, I've got a dozen bodies in the morgue! The public's got a right to know what happened!"

"Call it a drug deal gone wrong. It's New York. They'll buy it."

"You're asking the district attorney of Manhattan to tell a bold-faced lie." He couldn't believe it. He'd built his career on truth and justice. And now this—

"No." She was on her feet now, facing him. "I'm asking you to do the right thing." She stepped closer. "For Cathy."

"You've gotta be kidding me."

Slowly, Diana shook her head. "I've never been more serious."

"Cathy's my friend, Diana. I'd cut off my arm if I thought it would help her. But she isn't above the law."

"Cathy didn't do anything wrong."

"See, that's where you're wrong." He paced away from her, turned, paced back. "She knows somebody who did something wrong. Worse than that, she's protecting him. That makes her an accomplice to murder."

"Look at him, Joe." This time it was Diana who pointed at the TV. "The world doesn't even know he exists. What's going to happen to him if they find out?"

"That isn't my problem." But he lowered his voice, the anger seeping away. It would be another bloodbath, but one of a much different, and more destructive, kind.

"Yes, it is. If you really are Cathy's friend, it's your problem as much as it is hers."

He looked up, meeting Diana's eyes. "Does she really love this guy?"

In answer, Diana picked up the picture of the baby, turning it so that he could see the distinctive blue eyes. "What do _you_ think?"

Joe sank into a chair and dropped his head in his hands. "I don't know what to think anymore."

"Then don't think. Feel. What does your gut say?"

He gave her a crooked smile. "Because your gut never steered you wrong, huh, Bennett?"

She grinned back and reached out to squeeze his arm. "It's gotten me this far." She tilted her head toward the electronics. "Who else has seen that?"

"Nobody, yet."

"Can I have the tape?"

"Why?"

She shrugged and shook her head. "The less you know . . ."

"Plausible deniability. Yeah. I get it." He gestured at the scattered pictures. "Those are going to be a problem."

"Lab?"

"Yeah."

"Any other copies?"

"I don't think so."

"I'll take care of it."

He stared at her. "I don't think I want to know how."

"It's best if you don't." Diana got to her feet. "What should I tell Cathy?"

"Tell her—" He hesitated. Sighed. "Tell her to take care of herself."

Diana started toward the door.

"Diana . . ."

"Yeah?"

"Konkani was into some dangerous stuff. And Cathy can identify his goons. She should think about staying out of sight. At least for a while."

"Somehow I don't think she'll have a problem with that."

As the door clicked quietly closed behind Diana, Joe rubbed his temples, willing away the oncoming headache. He'd just given tacit consent to an illegal act, making him an accomplice to a crime. A lot of crimes, if his suspicions were correct. And yet somehow he felt like he'd done the right thing.

Justice was one confusing lady.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent set the bassinet down next to the bed and turned back to find Catherine watching him. She held the baby in her arms, and she was smiling, her face alight with joy. The sight took his breath away.

"Vincent?" She tilted her head. "Are you okay?"

He nodded. "It's . . . like a dream."

She crossed to the bassinet and laid the baby gently inside. He was asleep, and Vincent wondered if he would sleep until morning, or if he would be restless in the night. Catherine straightened and turned toward him. He welcomed her into his arms, certain that he would never grow tired of having her close.

"If it _is_ a dream," she said, "I hope we never wake up." She laid her head on his chest and he rested his cheek against her hair. Beyond her shoulder, he could see their sleeping son, and his chest grew tight with emotion. Every time he thought he couldn't possibly feel any more deeply connected to her, something happened to prove him wrong.

He sensed the subtle change in her mood just before she lifted her head and stepped out of his arms. She crossed the room to light another candle on the dresser, keeping her back to him as she spoke.

"You took a great risk," she said in a low voice. "And you left . . . without a word."

He wanted to go to her, to comfort her, but he knew she would reject him. He had hurt her, and the wound must be opened and cleansed before it could begin to heal. So he stayed where he was, watching her carefully while he tried to help her understand.

"If I had come to you, you would have been forced to choose between my life and our son's. How could I do that to you?"

Her eyes flashed with anger. "I could've lost _both_ of you!" Her hands curled tight at her sides, and beneath the light shawl, her shoulders were tense. "He would have _killed_ you! Once he got what he wanted—" She turned away, her voice dropping almost to a whisper. "And yet you went to him freely . . ."

"If Diana had come to you instead, would you have made a different choice?"

"I don't know, but at least I would've had the choice to make." Her voice cracked and she dropped her head, her hair falling forward to hide her face.

"Catherine . . ." The tension tore at him. It was strange, and painful. But he didn't know the words that would close this dark rift between them. "I would do anything, go anywhere, to protect you. _Both_ of you."

The baby shifted in his sleep, and she went to check on him, bending over the bassinet and adjusting the blankets. She stayed there, her hand gripping the worn wood, the skin tight across her knuckles.

"Vincent, without you . . ." She stopped. Shook her head.

The pain she felt was his as well. He remembered it, had lived through a dark time when he'd thought he would never hold her in his arms again. And it had almost destroyed him.

"Catherine—" In three strides he was by her side, and he touched her shoulder, his bandaged hands stark against the dark weave of her shawl. "I'm here now," he whispered.

With a low, shuddering sigh, she turned into his arms, and he held her tightly against him, comforting her. This storm, too, they would survive.

"I've never been so frightened." Her voice was choked with emotion.

He closed his eyes and lowered his head against hers. "It was your love that kept me safe," he said. "My sense of you, our connection, gave me strength in my darkest hours."

She pulled back enough to look up at him, her eyes liquid pools that shimmered in the candlelight. With his thumbs, he wiped the dampness from her cheeks. Then he bent and kissed the salt from her eyelashes.

When he lifted his head, she wrapped her hands around his neck and pulled him back down, and then she was kissing him—or he was kissing her—he didn't really know. He knew only that a great hunger rose up in him, and as he drew her close again he sensed that she felt it as well. He wanted to be closer to her, to show her, in every way he knew how, that she was his life. His lips moved over her face, brushing across the soft skin, savoring the warm, salty taste of her tears on his tongue, and she pressed against him with a quiet, needy sound that made him hold her even tighter. He was about to lift her into his arms and carry her to the bed when something, some small sound in the tunnels beyond her chamber, drew his head up and pulled a low, frustrated growl from the back of his throat.

"Vincent . . ." Footsteps sounded in the corridor. "Vincent, are you down here?"

"Father," Catherine whispered, stepping back and dropping her head. He saw her shoulders rise as she drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and knew that she was trying to calm her racing heart, just as he was.

"Yes." Vincent crossed to the chamber entrance, giving her time and privacy in which to recover. "Here, Father."

Father came in, leaning heavily on his cane. "I thought I might find you here."

"I brought Catherine a bed for the baby." Vincent indicated the bassinet with a wave of his hand.

"Ah. Yes. Very good. How is he?"

Catherine looked up with a faint smile. "He's perfect."

"He's also asleep," Vincent said mildly. He struggled to keep the frustration out of his voice, but the faint blush on Catherine's cheeks didn't make it easy. Nor did the fact that he knew she was equally unhappy with the interruption. "Was there something you needed?"

Father's gaze shifted between them, and a look of embarrassment flitted across his face. He coughed nervously. "No," he said. "I just wanted to make sure the baby was well."

"He is."

Father looked across at Catherine. "I believe William has some formula in the kitchen."

"You don't think I could—"

Father looked doubtful. "A great deal of time has passed since his birth. The hormone levels you would need for successful lactation . . ." He shook his head. "I'm afraid it would be quite impossible."

"I understand." Catherine hid her feelings well, but Vincent felt her disappointment.

"What will you do now?" Father asked. "Will you return Above?"

"No." Her eyes came up to meet Vincent's across the room. "If it's all right with the council," she said, her head held high, "I'd like to stay."

Father looked from her to Vincent. "Are you certain it's what you want?"

"Yes." She rested her hand on the edge of the bassinet. "We want to raise him here." The certainty in her voice left no room for doubt.

Vincent's heart stumbled and then leapt ahead as he realized all at once that he had a family, now. A real family. He hadn't had time to consider it before, so caught up was he in Catherine's return and the search for their son. The precious infant sleeping peacefully in the worn bassinet made it all real in ways it hadn't been before.

Father cleared his throat, and Vincent started, dragging his gaze away from Catherine long enough to nod his agreement. "All right, then. I'll have a word with the council, but I'm quite certain you'll be welcome."

"Thank you, Father."

He crossed the room to look in at the sleeping baby. "He really is a beautiful child."

"Yes," Vincent agreed. "He looks just like his mother."

Father looked up with a faint smile. "He looks like both of you." He moved to the door. "It's been a very long day. If you will excuse me, I believe I'll turn in."

Vincent followed him, bending to kiss the worn cheek. "Rest well, Father."

"You too, Vincent." Father glanced back. "Goodnight, Catherine."

"Goodnight, Father."

Father turned to go, paused, and glanced back at Vincent. "You might speak with Cullen tomorrow," he said. "I think he could probably manage a door . . ."

And then he was gone, leaving Vincent and Catherine to exchange bemused looks in his wake.

Vincent crossed to stand beside her at the bassinet. Together, they looked down at their sleeping son.

"I still can't believe he's really here," she said.

"I know."

"Do you think . . . will he remember any of it?"

"Perhaps." He put his arm around her waist.

She leaned against him. "You said once that we were something that has never been." She looked up, meeting his eyes. "So is he."

"Yes." He bent to kiss the top of her head. "And we will be there for him—to love him, and guide him, and watch him grow."

She searched his eyes, and he sensed that there was something she wanted to ask him, and yet for some reason, she hesitated.

"What is it, Catherine?"

She started to speak, closed her mouth again, and shook her head. "It's nothing."

"Tell me."

He could almost see her gathering her courage. She took a breath. "Do you remember," she said. "After my father died, I asked you a question."

They had spoken of many things during that difficult time. He searched his mind, but after a moment, he shook his head.

"I asked you," she said, "if you thought we would ever be together." She took his hand in hers. "Truly together."

"I remember."

"And you said only when we truly understood the sacrifice." She touched the leather pouch on his chest with the tip of her finger. "And the fear."

He nodded. It seemed so long ago, now. Another lifetime.

"Are you still afraid?"

He thought about all that had happened to them since they'd had that conversation. About losing her, and then finding her again, about their search for their son, about Elliot Burch and Diana Bennett and even Joe Maxwell. He thought about Gabriel, about how he _looked_ human, but wasn't.

And he thought about his dawning understanding that the unique combination of proteins and amino acids that defined his genetic makeup did not define his humanity as well.

In the quest to find his son, he had found himself.

"No," he said, as he bent his head to kiss her. "No, I'm not afraid."

As his lips moved against hers, and the sweet, familiar scent of her skin and hair filled his senses, desire heated his blood once again. Reluctantly, he ended the kiss, resting his forehead against hers.

"Catherine . . ."

"Hmmm?" Her voice was little more than a hum of sound as she curled her hands around the edges of his tunic.

"Have you seen Peter, yet?" They couldn't risk another pregnancy. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Her regretful sigh echoed his own feelings. "Not yet."

"Then perhaps it is best that I leave you now."

With obvious reluctance, she released him and stepped back. "You're right, of course."

It required all of his will to move away from her, and yet he knew he must. He crossed to the bassinet, stopping there to look once more upon his son's face.

"Goodnight, little one," he whispered. "Be well."

Tenderly, he tucked the blankets beneath the baby's chin. Satisfied, he started toward the doorway, determined to leave before it was too late.

"Vincent?"

He stopped and turned, half hoping that despite the danger she would ask him to stay. But she merely stared mutely at him, biting her lower lip as she fought her desire.

"Sleep well."

He hesitated. Everything within him demanded that he return to her side, but in the end he nodded and left quickly, not trusting himself to linger for another moment.


	29. Chapter 29

"Authorities are trying to unravel a mystery surrounding the death of reclusive multi-billionaire Gabriel Konkani. Konkani was found dead of a single gunshot wound when police attempted to bring him in for questioning regarding the unsolved deaths of District Attorney John Moreno and Assistant District Attorney Catherine Chandler. Authorities aren't saying how the cases are connected, but it is believed that Konkani may have been involved with organized crime."

As the television news reporter, a perky, dark-haired woman, continued her report, a picture of Gabriel's estate flashed behind her left shoulder.

"Police have learned that Konkani, who apparently had multiple aliases, was wanted in three countries on charges of arms trading, drug trafficking, and money laundering. A large cache of illegal arms has already been discovered in a buried concrete bunker on the massive estate, which is still being searched tonight."

Joe shook his head, muted the sound, and got up from the couch. He needed a beer and a vacation, though not necessarily in that order. True to her word, Diana had somehow made the evidence of Vincent's existence disappear, but Moreno's involvement with Konkani would keep the newshounds busy for days. And now, because of the international angle, the feds were nosing around as well.

The only silver lining in the whole ugly mess was that people seemed to think he was doing a decent job. So far, at least.

He grabbed a beer from the fridge, closed the door with a shove of his hip, and turned back to the living room. As he crossed the carpet, he noticed an envelope on the floor near the door. He bent to pick it up. The paper was thick and creamy white, the kind of heavyweight stationary he remembered his grandmother using, and his name was written across the front in neat, rounded script.

Puzzled, he tore a narrow strip from the top edge of the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper.

_J _

_I need to see you. Tuesday night. And I'd love to see Jenny._

_C_

Joe shook his head. Jenny would be thrilled to learn that Cathy was alive—and furious when she discovered he'd kept the information from her. He took a long drink of his beer and contemplated the telephone. Then, with a shrug, he reached for the handset. At least he'd finally have somebody he could talk to about this crazy, mixed-up case.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent leaned against the railing, watching Catherine. She was sitting in one of Father's chairs with the baby cradled in her arms while Mary and Lena and half a dozen other women crowded around her. She looked radiant. Her eyes sparkled and her smiles came easily. He felt it in their bond, as well. She was at peace now, no longer plagued by her fears or by the terrible nightmares.

"Vincent."

He straightened and turned as Peter Alcott came down the steps.

"Peter." He shook the doctor's hand. "Welcome."

Peter looked over at Catherine. "I heard you'd found him."

Vincent nodded. "Yesterday."

"And everyone's okay?" Peter glanced pointedly at Vincent's bandaged hands.

"This—" Vincent lifted his hands for a moment and then dropped them again as his gaze went back to Catherine and the baby. "It's nothing."

"Worth it, I guess," Peter said, "to have them back."

"Yes."

Across the room, Catherine laughed at something, and Vincent thought it was easily the loveliest sound he'd ever heard. She was wearing jeans today, and a sweater the color of her eyes, and she held the baby close, as though she was still a little worried that somebody might try to take him from her. But nobody would. Vincent would make certain of that with his last breath.

"Is there someplace we can talk?" Peter asked.

The will, Vincent remembered. Peter wanted to know what to do about it. "Of course." He eased his way through the group of well-wishers gathered around Catherine and knelt by her side.

"Catherine, Peter is here. He wishes to speak with us."

Catherine looked across to where Peter still stood beside the steps. He tipped his hat in a courtly, old-style gesture, and she smiled a welcome. "Mary?" she asked, turning back. "Would you mind looking after the baby for a few minutes? There's something I need to take care of."

"Certainly, Catherine." Mary smiled warmly as she accepted him from Catherine's arms. "I'll be happy to."

They went to Vincent's chamber, and Catherine sat on the bed while Vincent lit more candles.

"I can't tell you how happy I am for you," Peter said. "For both of you."

Vincent finished with the candles and sat down beside Catherine, leaving the big chair for Peter. "A great burden has been lifted."

"Yes," said Peter. "And it's about time." The depth of feeling in his voice warmed Vincent's heart. Peter looked at Catherine. "Have you decided what you want to do?"

She stood and crossed to the sculpture that stood by the chamber entrance. "I've thought about it a lot." She spoke softly, and her fingers traced the Scales of Justice as if she sought grains of wisdom in the ancient stone balance.

They'd avoided talking about the will, but Vincent knew that whatever decision she'd made had been one she'd considered carefully. Her choice in this would be her own.

"A part of me," she said, turning away from Lady Justice, "wanted to let the world Above go on believing I was dead. I was afraid. I thought that if someone found out I was still alive, they would come looking for me."

Vincent started to speak, to remind her that she was safe, but she shook her head, and he subsided, realizing that her concerns had been less for her own safety, and more for the safety of the ones she loved.

"When Gabriel was alive, I truly believed it was too dangerous for anybody to learn the truth." She returned to Vincent's side and sat down. "But he's gone, now."

"Cathy," Peter said, "I've been listening to the news. Gabriel Konkani had a whole network of people working for him. And you can identify some of them."

Catherine nodded. "And if any of them are arrested, I'll gladly testify about what I know."

"Are you sure you understand the risk you're taking? These are powerful people—"

Vincent laid his hand on top of hers, trying to communicate his belief in her through touch alone. She rewarded him with a quick smile before turning back to Peter. "I can't let them control my decisions, Peter. I can't let them affect the way I lead my life."

"So you'll be coming back up then? Back to your work with the D.A.'s office?"

She shook her head. "_This_ is my home, now. My family is here. My _life_ is here."

Peter's concern was clear in his voice and in his eyes. "If you plan to stay Below anyway, wouldn't it be safer to let the rest of the world continue to think you're dead?"

"It would be dishonest," Catherine said. "And it wouldn't be fair to my friends to ask them to believe a lie."

Peter sighed. "I can respect that, even if it scares me to death."

"Please don't worry," Catherine said. "I'll be safe here."

Peter's gaze flickered between them, and he smiled. "Yes," he said, "I imagine you will."

Catherine glanced at Vincent, and then back to Peter. "I need to ask you a favor."

"Certainly. Tell me what I can do."

"I need you to set up a meeting. You, me, my lawyer, and my accountant. I need to take care of a few things."

"When?"

"As soon as possible."

Peter nodded. "I'll see what I can do. Give me a couple of days."

"Thank you." Catherine glanced at Vincent. "There's . . . one other thing."

"What's that?"

Vincent and Catherine were adults, and the forgotten baby blanket at the end of his bed was a mute reminder of the importance of the question that Catherine was about to ask. Still, Vincent had to stifle a twinge of embarrassment as he anticipated Peter's reaction.

Catherine spoke quietly, her eyes on the open chamber entrance. "Birth control."

Vincent wasn't sure what he'd expected. Shock maybe? Dismay? But Peter only nodded.

"That's a good idea," he said. "Do you have anything specific in mind?"

"No," said Catherine. "But nothing permanent."

Peter considered that, and then nodded. "I think you should consider an IUD. It's simple, effective, and we wouldn't have to worry too much about side effects. I'd need to see you a couple of times to get it fitted properly, and then again if you decide you want another child, but it's an easy procedure."

Vincent had heard of the device Peter spoke of, but he knew very little about it, never having thought he would have a use for such information. Now, he had only one concern. "Is it safe?"

"Quite safe. A few women do have trouble, but as long as Catherine comes in for regular checkups, I see no reason why there should be any problems." He looked at Catherine. "How about if we schedule an appointment for the day you come up to meet with your attorney?"

"Sounds good." Catherine stood and crossed the room to hug him. "You're a good friend, Peter."

"Take care of yourself, Cathy." He kissed the top of her head and pulled back to look down at her. "And take care of that handsome son of yours."

"I will."

"I'll expect an invitation to the naming ceremony."

"How about Sunday night?" Catherine tucked her hand into the crook of Vincent's arm—a proprietary gesture that was simultaneously both strange and miraculous. "About eight o'clock?"

"I'll be there," Peter said with a warm smile.

He left, and Catherine touched the thick bandages on Vincent's hand. "Do they hurt much?"

"No," he said, resting his other hand over hers, sandwiching her delicate fingers between the layers of gauze. "They will heal quickly."

"Good."

He brushed a kiss against her forehead, and even that slight contact was enough to stir a bright spark of desire. "Perhaps we should retrieve our son."

Catherine laughed, but he saw a hint of regret in her eyes as she stood up. "You're assuming Mary will give him up."

Amused, and a little amazed that they should be having this conversation, he guided her from the chamber. "Maybe," he suggested, "we should promise her Saturday nights?"

**xXx**

**xXx**

"She's alive?" Jenny asked in stunned disbelief. "Where?"

"Actually," Joe said, "I'm not really sure where she is."

"Then how do you know—?"

"She came to see me a few days ago."

She stared at him, hurt and anger in her eyes. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Jenny . . . I'm sorry. She asked me not to."

Jenny sat down heavily on the couch. "I don't believe this."

"I know. I didn't believe it either at first."

"And she's coming here?"

Joe glanced at his watch. "She should be here any minute, in fact."

As if on cue, there was a soft knock at the door. Joe gave Jenny an 'I told you so' glance and went to open it.

"Hello, Joe." She was wearing the cloak again, but she no longer had the wan, terrified look she'd had when he'd last seen her.

"Punctual as ever, I see." He let her in and checked the hallway before closing and locking the door. When he turned back, she was pushing back the hood.

"Cathy!" Jenny hurried over. "Oh my God, Cathy! We thought you were dead!" She was laughing and crying at the same time.

"Jenny!"

The two women hugged, and it was several seconds before they separated and accepted tissues from the box Joe offered.

"You two are gonna flood the joint if you don't cut that out."

Catherine gave him a watery smile. "You're such a romantic."

Jenny dropped onto the couch and patted the seat beside her. "Sit down, Cathy. Tell us everything."

"Actually," Catherine said, as she set her cloak aside, "there isn't a lot I can tell you. I just . . . wanted you to know I was all right."

"But you're coming back now, right? I mean, they said on the news that the guy who kidnapped you was dead."

"He is."

"Then it's all over, isn't it?"

"Not really."

Joe saw her glance at him, but he folded his arms and watched her without comment. He'd wait until after Jenny left to confront her with what he knew.

"Gabriel was a powerful man," Cathy said, returning her attention to Jenny. "He had a lot of people working for him—people who might get nervous if they found out I was back."

"So what are you going to do?"

"I'm going away, Jenny."

"Where?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that."

"Is it someplace safe?"

Catherine nodded, her gaze soft and distant. "Yes," she said, "it's safe."

With Vincent, Joe knew. But where? How was it possible for somebody like Vincent to live in New York without being seen?

Jenny's concerns were more immediate. "Will I ever see you again?"

"I hope so," Catherine said. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Anything, Cathy. You know that."

"Can you talk to Nancy for me? Let her know I'm okay?"

Jenny tilted her head, confused. "Can't you talk to her yourself?"

Cathy shook her head. "It's best if I'm not seen right now."

"I understand. Sure, I'll talk to her. Is there something specific you want me to tell her?"

"No, just give her my love."

"Cathy," Jenny glanced at Joe, whose arms were still folded as he leaned against the couch. "Are you sure everything's okay?"

"I'm sure," Catherine said, and the look on her face left no room for doubt. She wasn't just okay. She was happy.

A few minutes later Jenny left, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. Joe locked it again and turned back to Cathy.

"You've been keeping secrets," he said, not quite able to keep the hurt out of his voice. Why hadn't she trusted him?

"Joe—"

"Tell me about this guy Vincent." The words were brusque. Clipped.

Catherine looked away. "I can't."

"Can't? Or won't." Disappointment and anger combined to make his voice sharper than he'd intended.

"Both, I guess. Vincent is . . . special."

"Yeah. I gathered that." Joe crossed the room and sat down across from her. "I've seen him, Cath. This guy Konkani . . . He had video tapes."

"Oh, my God." Catherine's eyes went wide with fear, and Joe found he couldn't torment her with it. No matter how angry he was with her, he still considered her a friend. She'd been there for him, believing in him at a time when it had seemed as though the entire world had allied against him. The least he could do was return the favor.

"Don't worry," he said. "Diana took care of it."

"Diana Bennett?"

"Uh huh. And she made a mess of pictures disappear too, but don't ask me how she did it. I don't know, and I don't want to know."

"Vincent's a good man, Joe."

"A man? Are you sure about that? Because he didn't exactly look human to me."

"He was born the way he is. Nobody knows why."

"And yet you're sure he's human."

Her nod was emphatic and a little defensive. "He's more human than most people I know."

He'd known Cathy long enough to know she would never lie to him, but what he'd seen sure hadn't looked human. "How long have you been seeing this guy?"

"Remember when I was attacked a couple of years ago?"

"Just before you came to work in the D.A.'s office?"

She nodded.

"Yeah, I remember."

"It was Vincent who saved me," she said. "He found me in the park, and he took me someplace safe, and he watched over me while I healed."

"And he's been saving your life ever since."

"How do you mean?"

"Diana put it together for me. I didn't want to see it, but now that I know who he is, it's kind of hard to ignore the evidence. All those cases—"

"Joe, you have to understand. He was protecting me."

"Funny," Joe said, "that's what Diana says, too." He watched her for a long, tense moment. "I've got a dilemma here, Radcliffe. You see, technically you're an accomplice to a crime. To a lot of crimes."

"Charges weren't filed in any of those cases."

"Because we didn't know who to file them against! Now we do."

"Joe, you can't do this!" Desperation rose in her voice.

But he could, and they both knew it. In fact, he had a legal obligation to report what he knew. "There's no statute of limitations on murder," he reminded her.

"You've seen his picture." She touched his arm, waiting for him to meet her eyes. "They'll destroy him!"

"He's dangerous! Did you _see_ what he did at the Konkani place?"

"No, he isn't. He isn't dangerous at all. He's the kindest, gentlest man I've ever known."

The irony of that remark wasn't lost on either of them, and Joe stared at her, shaking his head. "I can't let this go on, Cathy. You _know_ that."

"It won't. It'll stop now."

Joe folded his arms, eyebrows raised. "You know that for a fact."

"Yes."

He got to his feet and crossed to the kitchen. He took two glasses out of the cabinet and turned back to her, not surprised to find that she'd followed him. He reached into the freezer for an ice tray. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because _I_ won't be in danger any more."

"And you know that because—" He added ice to the glasses, filled them with cold tap water, and offered one to her.

She accepted the drink with a nod of thanks. "Because I'll be _with_ him."

"And that's supposed to magically make things better?" He drained his glass and set it on the counter beside him, wishing it'd held something stronger.

"You don't understand what this means to him. To _us_. We're a family, Joe. Vincent isn't going to do anything that would put that at risk."

"You're going to _marry_ him?" He tried to wrap his mind around the idea, but it was all too new, too strange.

She dropped her eyes, and ice cubes clinked in her glass as she rolled it between her palms. "He hasn't asked."

"Cathy . . . You have a _kid. _Surely he's at least considered it."

Surprised, she looked up from her drink. "You know about my son?"

Joe shrugged that off. "Pictures, remember?"

Catherine sighed. "It's . . . complicated."

"Obviously." He took her glass and set it in the sink before leading the way back to the living room.

"Look, Joe. I can't expect you to understand. I'm not even sure _I_ understand sometimes. But I'm asking you to believe me when I tell you the killings will end now."

He couldn't believe he was going to let her get away with this. And yet he knew that if the public ever found out about Vincent, they'd either kill him or study him to death. Besides, there was a world of difference between killing for the sake of killing, and killing to protect a loved one.

"If they don't, Cathy, I'm going to have to act. I can't let some rogue vigilante terrorize the city."

"I know." She rested her hand on the back of the couch. "We're going to disappear, Joe. You won't hear from us again."

"Cathy—" The worn cushions gave beneath Joe's weight as he sat down. She'd forced him to choose between their friendship and his job, and though he didn't regret his decision, it didn't rest easy on his conscience, either. Still . . . "I don't want that."

"It's for the best. You know it is." She sat down beside him, her voice intense. "It's my turn to keep _him_ safe, now. And we've got a child to raise—a little boy who deserves to know _both_ of his parents." She touched his arm. "You're right, Joe. The killings have to stop. Not just because they're wrong, or because you'd have to act, but because every time he kills . . . I think it destroys a little bit of his soul."

His _soul_? Joe tilted his head to one side. "You lead an interesting life, Radcliffe."

She laughed a little. "I guess I do."

"You're sure this is what you want?" He remembered what he thought when he'd first met her—that she was a flighty do-gooder who would disappear the minute things got tough. Boy, had he been wrong.

"I'm sure."

"There's nothing I can do to talk you out of it."

She looked almost amused at the prospect of his trying. "I'm afraid not."

"Where will you go?"

"You know I can't tell you that."

He sighed. "No, I imagine you can't. Is there anything you need? Anything I can help you with?"

"There is one thing."

"What?"

"The death certificate."

"You want it rescinded?"

"Can you do it?"

He nodded. "Jenny can witness, so it shouldn't be a problem."

"I can't appear."

"I know. I'm pretty sure I can take care of it without you, especially under the circumstances."

"Thanks, Joe."

"Anything else?"

"No." She glanced at her watch and got to her feet, reaching for her cloak. "I should go. Vincent's waiting."

Joe stood, too. "Tell Vincent I said he'd better treat you right."

She smiled at that. "I'll tell him, but I don't think you need to worry."

He pulled her into a tight hug. "Take care of yourself, huh?"

"I will. And Joe—" Her eyes were bright when she pulled out of his arms. "If you need me to testify, leave a message with Peter Alcott. He'll know where to find me."

"You sure? These are dangerous guys." If it were any other witness, he'd be doing everything he could to make sure she testified. But this was Cathy, and he felt honor bound to give her one more chance to change her mind.

"I know. And if I can do something to help get them off the streets, I will."

"All right, then." He reached to help her adjust the cloak across her shoulders. "I'll let you know."

She pulled the hood up over her hair, and he realized he might never see her again. For a moment, he wanted to grab her arm and keep her from leaving, force her into some kind of understanding of the insanity of it all, and yet he knew his arguments would fall on deaf ears. She'd made up her mind, and once committed to a course of action, Cathy was nothing if not single-minded.

A few seconds later the door closed behind her, and he leaned his forehead against it with a sigh.

"Take care, kiddo. Stay safe."

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent found Diana on her balcony. It was a clear and moonless evening. She had a telescope set up, and she seemed intent upon her work. He hated to disturb her, but the message he brought was an important one.

"Diana."

She straightened from the eyepiece, startled. "Vincent."

"Have you been well?"

"Fine. You?"

"I owe you my thanks." He stepped closer and reached out a hand to the gleaming black telescope. "I owe you my life."

She shook her head. "I was just doing my job."

"Catherine tells me you did more than your job."

"The pictures."

He nodded. "And the tapes."

"They would have destroyed you," Diana said. "I couldn't let that happen."

Vincent was quiet for a moment, looking out over the city. "What will you do now?"

"They've offered me other cases," Diana said, "but I turned them down."

He turned to her, surprised. "Why?"

"I'm leaving New York. I've been offered a job in Portland."

"Oregon?" A horn blared in the street below, and instinctively Vincent moved back from the wall.

Diana was shaking her head. "Maine."

He considered that for a moment. "Such a small city." Had her decision to help him hurt her career?

"Compared to New York, every city's small."

"Is this your choice?"

She nodded. "I requested it." She leaned against the railing beside him. "This job . . . it's eating me alive. I spend my life in other people's heads, watching them do terrible things to each other." She pushed to her feet and moved away. "I can't do it anymore. I need something different. And—" she looked up at the night sky. "I'd like to live someplace where I can see the stars."

Vincent watched her carefully. Diana was a good woman, and she'd been a friend to him when he'd needed one most. He would miss her. "When do you leave?"

"Next week."

There was time, then, to show her some of his world. "Before you go, there is one more thing I would ask of you."

"What's that?"

"When a child is born Below, we have a special ceremony to welcome him to our community. We give him a name, and we give him gifts. It is a special time in our world. Catherine and I would like you to join us for our son's naming."

"When is it?" she asked, and he could tell by her expression that she was flattered by his request.

"Sunday night. Eight o'clock. Afterward there will be a small celebration."

"Where should I meet you?"

"At the Central Park entrance."

Diana nodded. "Can I bring anything?"

"Just yourself."

Her eyes sought and held his, the pupils wide in the darkness. "Afterward . . . will I ever see you again?"

Vincent nodded. "You know where to find me," he said. "You will always be welcome."

Diana turned away then, her gaze going to the city skyline. "I keep thinking that it's all been some kind of bizarre dream, and pretty soon I'll wake up and find I imagined it all. You, Catherine, Gabriel . . ." She lifted her hands, shrugged, and dropped them again. "Silly, huh?"

"No," Vincent said. "Not silly. And not a dream."

Her laugh was soft. Rueful. "You're right," she said. "I never could've imagined you."

Once, such words might have caused him pain.

Now, he only smiled.


	30. Chapter 30

Vincent was waiting at the park entrance when Catherine returned from her appointment with Peter. The meeting had run long; it was well-past nightfall by the time he sensed her approach. She paused beyond the sheltered access point, and he saw her scan the area before she turned and ducked inside. A moment later, he held her in his arms.

"It went well," he said when she pulled back.

She nodded. "Very." She looked beyond him, her eyes probing the shadows. "Where's the baby?"

"Mary is watching over him."

Catherine glanced at her watch with a grimace. "I had no idea it was so late," she said. "I'm sorry."

"You had business to attend to. There's no need to apologize."

She was quiet for a moment, her gaze sliding back toward the tunnel entrance and the city beyond. "It feels a little strange, walking away from it all."

"Are you quite certain, Catherine? There are still other choices, other possibilities."

"No." She shook her head. "It's time to move on. Time to live another life."

He still sensed no doubt in her, no questioning of her decision. Would he ever cease to be amazed by that? He lifted his hood over his head and reached for her hand. "Come," he said, "walk with me."

It was quiet in the park, as weeknights usually were, and their only company as they wandered among the trees was the occasional bat that swooped past them on silent wings.

"How is Peter?" Vincent asked at length.

"He's fine." Catherine plucked an oak leaf from an overhanging branch and twirled it in her fingers. "I don't know how he managed to arrange things so quickly."

They paused in the middle of a footbridge, and she dropped the leaf over the railing, watching as the stream carried it away.

She seemed pensive as she gazed into the swirling water, and he wondered what she was thinking. "Is it finished, then?"

"Yes." Her eyes glinted with reflected moonlight when she glanced up at him. "The paperwork will take a few days, but I think everything will work out fine."

"And the appointment with Peter? Did it go well?"

She nodded. "Just the physical today. He has to wait on some test results before he can do anything else."

"When do you see him again?"

"Tuesday."

"Good." Such a small word. How could it begin to convey his relief, his joy, in the knowledge that she would soon be protected from the one uncertainty that still troubled him? Their son was a miracle, formed more in her likeness than in his. A second child might be more like him, endangering her safety the same way he must have endangered his own mother's. The thought stirred memories of Paracelsus—memories that terrified him with their nightmarish possibilities.

Catherine was still talking, apparently unaware of his reaction to her news. "I've arranged for some of my things to be brought Below." She looked over at him. "If that's all right?"

Pushing the troublesome thoughts aside, Vincent nodded. "Of course, Catherine. The tunnels are your home, now."

"Peter's going to arrange for the sale of my apartment and most of the furniture." She turned away from the railing and they started walking again, their footfalls almost silent on the darkened path. "I would have brought it all Below, but . . ." She hesitated, and he sensed an uneasiness in her, some worry yet unresolved. When she went on, her voice was so low that he had to bend close to hear the words. "I don't want people to think I'm buying my place among you."

Surprised by the comment, Vincent stopped her with a touch at her elbow. "Nobody would think that, Catherine."

"I hope you're right." But her gaze was searching and a little doubtful, as though she wanted to believe him but couldn't quite set aside her fears.

And perhaps her concern wasn't entirely unfounded. Neither of them could know for certain how the community would react to her coming Below permanently, and though Vincent hoped for the best, he knew there were those who might resent the presence of a wealthy topsider in their midst.

"I have so much to learn." With the change of subject, enthusiasm gradually replaced the vague disquiet in Catherine's voice. "There's the security system, the pipe codes, the children's schooling . . ." Her eyes sparkled with excitement. She was so eager, so willing, and his heart swelled with pride as he watched her. "I want to learn all of it, Vincent. I want to understand, truly understand, everything."

The task she proposed would not be an easy one. Most who came Below settled quickly into one or two areas of community life, contributing to the well-being of the group in whatever manner best suited their abilities and temperament. Catherine's determination to learn all of it was impressive. "You amaze me."

"Why?"

"That you could leave everything you know behind and start over again in a strange new world . . . Such a thing takes great courage."

"No." She shook her head. "Only great love."

She held his gaze, and for a second even the wind seemed to hesitate. Then she smiled and took his hand, and they walked on. They were nearing the playground, and Vincent studied the deserted swings, thinking of the night when he would teach his son to fly.

"It's all going to be different now, isn't it," Catherine said, following his gaze.

"Yes." It would be. As a member of the community, Catherine would be expected to work as hard as any other tunnel dweller, to suffer the same hardships and share in the same triumphs. She would do well, he knew, and yet he also knew the adjustment might be more difficult than she anticipated. And they were parents now, with a son who would look to them for guidance—a son who might yet turn out to be more like his father than anybody knew.

"Vincent." She pulled him to a stop near a graceful willow tree. "We've talked about my reasons for coming Below, about whether it was the right thing for me." She touched the worn leather pouch that hung around his neck. "But we've never really talked about whether it's the right thing for you." The moonlight shone against her hair when she lifted her head to meet his eyes. "Is this what _you_ want, too?"

He was vaguely surprised that she needed to ask. And yet, with the exception of one brief moment of unguarded honesty, he'd never put his dreams into words, unwilling to taint the choice that must be hers alone. Now such care was no longer necessary. He raised his head, listening to the night. They were alone. He was certain of it, and yet he guided her beneath the overhanging branches of the weeping willow, unwilling to risk a chance discovery. The tree welcomed them, its sheltering arms gathering them into a deeply shadowed haven, safe from prying eyes.

He leaned against the trunk and took her hands in his, rubbing the pad of his thumb across the soft skin while he considered how much to tell her.

"I was still very young when I began to understand that I was different from the other children. Father had always treated me with special care, but I was only a child; I thought nothing of it . . . until the other children my age began to explore the world Above, and I was forced to stay behind."

Her fingers pressed against his, and he glanced down at them. So delicate. So perfect. And so very, very precious.

"I soon came to hate what I was. Who I was." He lifted his eyes, his gaze slipping between the feathered branches to the playground beyond, memories of that dark time carrying him back. "When I was eight years old, I borrowed a pair of scissors from Mary's sewing box and . . ." He hesitated, searching for words that would convey the meaning of what he'd done while omitting the most graphic details. "I tried to make myself look more like other boys."

"No . . ." The shock and dismay in her voice drew his attention back to her, and he squeezed her hands reassuringly. Those days were far behind him now, the pain he'd suffered a distant memory.

"Father was very angry." It was a rather inadequate description. When Father had discovered him sitting cross-legged on the floor of an empty chamber—surrounded by mounds of hair, his fingers torn and bloody from his attempts to remove the hated claws—he'd been furious and appalled. But there was no need to burden Catherine with details that would only trouble her further.

Her voice was little more than a horrified whisper. "I imagine he was."

The way she watched him, her eyes wide and full of sympathy, sparked a rush of tenderness, and he lowered his head to place a gentle kiss against the softness of her lips. Then he tucked her close and let his gaze drift back to the abandoned playground.

"With time, I learned to accept who I was, to make peace with it and find what freedom I could in the deepest hours of the night. But I always knew that my life would never be like other men's lives." He breathed deeply, closing his eyes as he drew in her scent. "And then I found you."

She nestled against him, her arms tight around his waist.

"I never thought, never dared dream, that you might see in me a man you could love, a man you would willingly share your life with, giving up everything you'd ever known for a world without sunlight, a world of shadows and hardship."

"Thanks to you," Catherine whispered, "I've learned there can be magic in the shadows."

How like her to reassure him—even now, when such reassurance was no longer necessary.

"You gave me the courage to hope, Catherine. The courage to dream. Do not doubt, ever, that I want you by my side."

She said nothing, but he sensed an easing of some small tension within her, and a growing sense of peace. They stood quietly then, content to rest in each other's arms, with only the stars and the creatures of the night for company. A gentle breeze sighed through the willow fronds, and in the distance, Vincent heard an owl call to its mate.

"Catherine . . ." He waited until she looked up, her eyes mere shadows in the deep gloom. "I have . . . one more dream."

The look she gave him, a sort of curious, birdlike tilt of the head, almost made him set aside what he meant to say in favor of kissing her again.

"Tell me."

He was surprised to discover that he was nervous. It was an unaccustomed feeling, and he forced himself to breathe slowly in an effort to slow the disconcerting rush and flutter of his pulse.

"In my dream, you're standing beside me in front of the entire community . . ." The scene was so clear in his mind that he thought he might almost reach out and hold it in his hand, the way one might hold a butterfly. ". . . and agreeing to be my wife."

At first, Catherine was quiet. Then she lifted her hand to his face, and he closed his eyes to drink in the caress of her fingers against his skin.

"In the dream," she said, "am I happy?"

"Yes." The single word was all that he could manage.

"Good." She lowered her hand to rest against his heart. Could she feel it racing beneath her palm? Did it thunder in her ear like the beat of galloping hooves? But she said nothing more, and he'd begun to wonder if she would, when he heard her low voice whisper through the darkness. "I have a dream, too."

"Yes?"

"Mmhmm."

He felt the hum more than heard it, a faint vibration that trembled along his arm where it pressed against her back.

"Tell me." Rising hope made him smile against her hair.

"In my dream, we're surrounded by candles, and somehow I know we aren't alone, but I can't see anybody but you."

"And what am I doing?"

"You're smiling."

"I am?"

"Yes."

"And what else am I doing?"

Her fingertips flexed against his chest, and he felt her shoulders rise with her indrawn breath. "You're holding my hand in yours . . ."

She hesitated. She was nervous, too, he realized, sensing the thrumming tension in their bond. The understanding calmed his own nerves, and he wrapped his fingers around hers where they rested against his chest. How strange that they should be so uncertain. "And?"

"And you're putting a ring on my finger."

A ring. Of course she would expect a ring. His mind leapt ahead, considering possibilities, but she interrupted his thoughts.

"I've always loved my mother's wedding ring," she said, her voice still just a whisper in the darkness. "I used to hope that someday . . . I might wear it."

He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss against the tender skin. "I think," he said, "your mother might like that."

He couldn't see her smile in the darkness, but he heard it in her voice. "Yes," she said, "I think she would."

"Catherine . . ." There was one more thing she must understand. "We don't have any helpers in the county clerk's office." She would know, of course, what that meant, and yet something drove him to say the words. "A formal marriage license . . . is impossible."

It might be different if New York recognized common-law marriage, or if a proxy could appear on his behalf, but such was not the case. It was, he thought a little sadly, yet another sacrifice he must ask of her. But before he could speak the apology that hovered on his lips, she pulled out of his arms and reached up to frame his face with her hands.

"I don't need a piece of paper to tell me what my heart already knows. All I need . . ." her grip on his chin eased, turning into a caress, "is you." She slid her hands around his head, tangling them in his hair and using her leverage to pull his head down to hers.

There was nothing tentative about her kiss, nothing hesitant. Her lips were firm, with little of the slow tenderness they'd shared in the past. Responsive heat rushed through him, and he pulled her into the cradle of his hips, setting his legs apart and splaying his fingers wide against the small of her back, bringing her body into tight, intimate contact with his. Her kiss tasted of sunshine, and he drank it in, its energy feeding the fire that already threatened to carry him away.

He wanted to claim her. He wanted to pillow her head with his cloak and peel away her clothes, and make love to her beneath the stars and the moon and the dancing willow fronds. He would worship every inch of her silken skin, seeking out the hidden places and enflaming her passions, until her cries mingled with the cricket song and drowned out the mournful call of the whippoorwill.

His senses, so highly attuned to hers, sang with their shared desire, her body seeming almost to pulse against his. Keeping her close with one hand, he buried the other in her hair, and strands of silk slid through his fingers like water. Their kisses grew more heated, her lips moving against his in a silent plea, and he wanted to grant her wish, wanted to share his love in all the ways he had before, and in all the ways he'd only imagined in his deepest, most private fantasies. Her tongue slid past his teeth to dance against his, and he struggled for control, holding desperately to the thin threads of sanity that still held sway over his desires.

It was Catherine who stopped it, Catherine who pulled back, gasping, her head dropping against his chest as she wrapped her arms around his waist and held on with surprising strength.

Breathing hard, Vincent let his head fall back against the tree. He stared up through the leafy branches to the star-studded sky, concentrating on the constellations, fighting the inferno that raged in his blood. How did other men live with this hunger? How did they prevent it from consuming them entirely?

_Ursa Major. _He stared at the pinpricks of light, just visible through the trembling branches, with single-minded intensity. _Ursa Minor. Cassiopeia. Gemini . . ._

"Vincent?" Her voice, heavy with humor and frustrated desire, stirred the hair at his shoulder.

He dragged his eyes away from the stars. His heart still raced, and his hands . . . gradually he became aware that he still held her body pressed tight against his own. With a conscious effort, he loosened his hold, but she made no move to step away.

"Do you think . . ." She pressed her palm flat against his chest and took a deep breath. "How long do you suppose it takes to plan a wedding Below?"

Amusement cooled the last vestiges of passion, and he smiled as he brushed a kiss against the top of her head.

"I hope," he whispered, "not more than a week."

He reached for her hand. She twined her fingers with his, and they turned toward home. Beyond the park, the world rushed on at a frenetic pace, but for now, for them, there was only the magic.

And love.


	31. Chapter 31

Diana watched as Vincent reached up to touch a place high on the wall. With a low, grating rumble, a rough slab of concrete rolled across the opening that connected her world to this one, closing it off as though it had never existed.

"That's incredible," she said.

Vincent turned to her, his hand falling away from the hidden pressure point. "Merely an illusion." He glanced down the corridor behind him. "Come. We must hurry. The ceremony will begin soon."

She wanted to ask him how they could possibly start without him, but he was already moving, and she hurried to catch up, gazing around in fascination as they strode through the twisting corridors.

Diana didn't know much about cave systems, but she'd always thought they were damp and chilly. This place was neither of those things. It was cool, certainly, and she was glad she'd worn a jacket, but the air felt clean and dry against her skin. And though the ground beneath her feet sloped gradually downward, it was smooth and dirt-packed, not the rough, uneven surface she would've expected.

The tunnels were like underground arteries set among an intricate tangle of smaller veins and tiny capillaries that made Diana hope Vincent planned on leading her back out after the celebration. She'd never find her way on her own. And running through it all were the pipes, some shiny and new, others grayed or dull green with age, and still others that looked as if they might collapse in a pile of blood-red dust at the slightest touch; all of them echoing with an oddly musical cadence that reminded her of her mother's beloved wind chimes.

The paths they traveled were lit by torches set into iron brackets high on the granite walls. The absence of electrical lighting made Diana feel as if they were walking backward in time. Surely they must soon approach some grand, medieval castle, its entrance guarded by moat and drawbridge and fierce stone lions.

A fresh burst of metallic sound brought Vincent to an abrupt stop, his cloak swirling around his legs. He tilted his head, listening. Then he nodded and turned to her. "We're almost there now. The others are waiting."

"Others?" She remembered the odd group she'd met when she'd run from Gabriel's men. There'd been fewer than a dozen people that day, though it had seemed like more at first.

He nodded. "My family."

His family? Were there others like him after all? The thought made her stomach do an odd little flip-flop, her thoughts faltering for an instant while she considered the implications. But without further explanation, Vincent started walking again, and Diana set the question aside. She'd learn the answer soon enough.

A few seconds later they rounded another bend in the corridor, and Vincent ducked his head as he turned into a short passageway that opened up into a large, brightly-lit cavern. Diana came to an abrupt stop, startled to find herself the focus of dozens of curious stares.

She stood on a wide stone ledge. In front of her, a short flight of steps led down to a level floor, in the center of which a narrow, wrought-iron staircase wound a tight spiral up to a second level. The room was furnished with heavy, mismatched furniture that wore the patina of age with dignified grace. Books of all shapes and sizes covered every available surface, stacked so high in some cases that Diana thought they might crash to the floor at any moment. And everywhere she looked there were people looking back at her—from the children clustered in groups on the floor and dangling their legs through the staircase railings, to adults with keen-eyed suspicion in their eyes, to the elderly, gray-haired and faded, who watched her with the accumulated wisdom of decades. So many people. Did _all_ of them live down here? Diana struggled to make sense of what her eyes were telling her. How was it possible?

"It's a bit much to take in all at once, isn't it." The cheerful voice brought Diana out of her speechless reverie, and she blinked, her gaze settling on a petite, bright-eyed woman with a riotous mass of red hair.

"I had no idea . . ."

The other woman stuck out a hand. "Aye, and you'll have a million questions, I'm sure. I'm Julia."

"Julia . . ." At the sound of Vincent's voice, both women turned. "This is Diana Bennett."

"I thought as much. She has my red hair, you know." The way she said it, as though hair color alone was enough to make them kin, brought a smile to Diana's lips, but Vincent only nodded.

"At the risk of seeming an inattentive host, may I ask you to introduce Diana to the others? I'm afraid we've arrived a little late, and I fear Father may start the ceremony without me."

Julia laughed. "He wouldn't dare."

Vincent's eyes sparkled with gentle humor. "Nevertheless, it is not a risk I wish to take lest he name my son Snarveling."

Julia shuddered in mock horror as Diana grinned.

"Go," Julia said "Catherine is tapping her foot. I shouldn't like to keep you from her any longer."

Vincent's expression softened, and he glanced toward the center of the room. Diana followed his gaze and saw Catherine watching them, the baby in her arms. Something about the way Vincent and Catherine looked at each other made Diana feel as though she'd interrupted an intensely private moment, and she dropped her eyes, her gaze skidding away as she searched for something else to focus on.

"It's lovely to see them so happy," Julia said after Vincent excused himself.

Diana watched him touch the baby's cheek, a look of deep tenderness on his face. A small hand freed itself from the blanket to wrap around his, and Diana felt a sudden ache in her chest. She pushed the feeling aside and turned her attention back to Julia.

"I'm just glad everyone's home safe," she said.

"Aye. Me, too." Julia was silent for a long, pensive moment. Then she shook her head, as though setting aside some painful memory of her own. "Come. I'll introduce you to the others."

In short order, Diana met a shy, awkward boy with the unlikely name of Mouse, a gnome-like bald man with intelligent eyes and a restless manner named Pascal, and a golden-haired beauty whose name was Lena. Lena held a baby of her own in her arms, a bright-eyed, outgoing cherub who reached out chubby arms to Diana.

"Her name's Catherine," Lena said proudly. Evidently, she saw the question in Diana's eyes, because she nodded. "She saved my life. Naming my daughter after her was my way of saying thanks."

Before Diana could question Lena further, a stir of excitement drew her attention back to the center of the chamber. Jacob Wells—Father, she corrected herself, though the name felt a little awkward—moved to stand beside a large table laden with gifts. As Diana watched, a dark-haired sprite of a girl added another package to the top of the pile, causing several packages to teeter dangerously as she danced away. Vincent stopped her with a gentle touch on the shoulder. He bent and spoke softly to her, and Diana saw the girl cast a guilty glance back toward the table. Then, with a quick, bright, smile, she skipped back to right the stack, waiting for Vincent's nod of approval before settling herself on the floor in the midst of a chattering group of children.

Vincent rested his hand against the small of Catherine's back as the two of them stepped forward to stand in front of Father. And as Diana watched, she understood for the first time why people used the word radiant to describe new mothers.

Beside Diana, an older woman sighed. "They've been through so much," she said in a low voice, echoing Diana's thoughts. "I hope they'll finally find peace, now."

Father began the ceremony then, the natural authority in his voice silencing the few remaining conversations.

"Together," he said, "we have weathered a storm. A great storm, which at times I feared might never pass. Finally, it did pass. After much sorrow and loss, the time of darkness has ended, bringing us to this day. Allowing us to find peace, and rejoice in it."

Catherine kissed the baby's forehead and handed him to Vincent, then turned to address the gathered community. She was dressed in the same type of clothing the others wore, with a long skirt that brushed against her ankles, and a cream colored sweater against which her hair fell in a soft, natural wave. She wore no makeup, but the candles gave her skin a delicate golden glow, and Diana had a fleeting wish that everyone lived their lives by candlelight.

"I can't thank you enough." Catherine's voice seemed almost to float through the chamber. "You've given me a home, and a family." Her gaze touched on Vincent and the baby, and then rose to take in the assembled group. Diana saw her swallow hard. "A new life is opening up before me, and it's full of promise, and hope. I owe that to you—to your faith in me, and in Vincent and me, together. I want you to know that I will do everything in my power to continue to deserve your trust."

Catherine looked at Vincent, and something passed between them, some fragment of silent communication. Then Vincent lifted his head.

"Holding my son in my arms," he said, "and with Catherine, safe and well beside me ... I feel as though two miracles have been given to me. There are no words to express the depths of my gratitude to each of you. To all of you. My family."

Then it was Father's turn again, his voice thick with tightly-reined emotion as he continued the ritual. "It has been said that the child is the meaning of life. The truth of that has never been more apparent to me than it is on this day, when we celebrate this new life that has come into our world."

Diana looked at the tiny bundle nestled in Vincent's arms and remembered the first time she'd seen him—in a large and airy nursery where she'd shivered from a coldness that'd had nothing to do with temperature. How different it was in this candlelit chamber far beneath the city—a place where she should've been cold, and where, instead, she felt only a deep, abiding warmth.

"We welcome a child," Father was saying, "with love, that he may be able to love."

There was no shortage of that here. The chamber fairly glowed with it, and Diana wondered what it would be like to live in a world where such love was as commonplace as the air.

"We welcome a child with gifts, that he may learn generosity."

At this, the group of children on the floor whispered excitedly among themselves, several of them pointing at the loaded table, but a stern glance from Father silenced them instantly.

"And finally," he said, peace restored, "we welcome a child with a name."

Vincent and Catherine exchanged a glance. His raised eyebrows asked a silent question, her nod answered it, and Vincent lifted his head to meet Father's gaze.

"We've named our son Jacob."

Diana understood little of the relationships and politics of the unusual community, but she shared the ripple of approval that ran through the group. The old man, patriarch of this astonishing society, seemed eminently worthy of the honor Vincent and Catherine had just bestowed.

There was a bright sheen in Father's eyes as he addressed the gathering once more, and a smile lurked at the corners of his mouth. "In honor of young Jacob, William has prepared a king's feast in the Great Hall."

The dark-haired girl Diana had noticed earlier was on her feet in an instant. "But what about the presents?"

Jacob smiled. "Ah, yes, Samantha. We mustn't forget the presents."

Diana felt a light touch at her elbow and turned to meet Julia's cheerful grin. "They'll be forever opening that lot," she said with a tilt of her head toward the overloaded table. "Wouldn't you rather come and see the Great Hall? It's truly a marvel."

Diana glanced around, uncertain of the etiquette of the situation. "What's everybody else doing?"

"The little ones will stay, of course. They'll want to help open the gifts. But most of the adults will go on ahead."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

A passing teenager gave a very unladylike snort. "There's always work to do around here."

"Jamie," Julia said, a faint note of reproof in her voice. "Is that any way to speak to our new friend?"

Jamie shrugged unrepentantly. "It's true."

"Then," Diana interrupted, unwilling to be the center of an argument, "I'd like to help."

Julia nodded, approval in her warm gaze. "This way, then. I'm sure the others will join us shortly."

The last thing Diana saw as Julia led her from the chamber was Vincent. He was showing Samantha how to hold the baby.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Diana stayed close to the rough stone wall. She'd never been afraid of heights, but there was no railing, and beyond the edges of the rough-hewn steps, the ground fell away into what looked like a bottomless chasm. The stairs seemed to go on forever, dropping deeper and deeper into a blackness only dimly relieved by the half-dozen torches that flickered wildly in the howling wind.

The adults hurried down the stairs, apparently oblivious to the danger, while the few children who'd accompanied them capered about like so many mountain goats. Occasionally, one of the adults admonished a youngster who ventured too close to the edge, but Diana saw that the warnings were unnecessary. The children were at home here, as comfortable and easy as she was in her own living room.

She'd long since given up counting the stairs—a habit she'd acquired during a childhood spent in four-story walk-ups—when they finally came to a stop before a pair of massive doors. It took two men to lift aside the wooden beam that barred the doors, and when they pushed them open, the darkness inside seemed to absorb all light, swallowing it deep within its monstrous maw. Even the flames of the torches strained toward the emptiness, and Diana stayed close to one of the torch-bearers, unnerved by the gaping darkness. She knew her fears were unfounded, that these people wouldn't be so cheerful and unconcerned if there was any danger, and yet she couldn't deny her racing heart and clammy palms.

When everybody was inside, the men closed and barred the doors, cutting off the roar of the wind. Then there was a brief flurry of activity as those with torches hurried around the room lighting candles and lifting huge chandeliers into place against the high ceiling. In moments, golden light pushed the shadows back, and though it was still chilly, braziers were already starting to warm the air. Diana's uneasiness disappeared, swept aside with the darkness, and she looked around, her eyes skimming across heavy wooden tables, high-backed chairs, and a series of intricate, woven tapestries that adorned the walls.

She finally spotted Julia on the other side of the room. She was talking to a big man who wore a white apron and brandished a wooden spoon at a youngster whose fingers had ventured too close to a chocolate cake. Diana headed in their direction, determined not to stand around like an awkward rookie fresh from the academy.

The next half hour passed in a blur of activity. Diana helped set out food, arrange the tables, and clear a space for dancing. She was folding napkins when a sudden hush fell over the room, and she looked up to see Vincent and Catherine standing at the top of the steps. For an instant, she forgot to breathe. Vincent looked almost regal. He held his head high, his hair falling in a great golden mass across the shoulders of his cloak. And at his side, Catherine held Jacob once again. She was smiling up at him, her eyes sparkling with laughter.

It took a moment for them to realize they'd become the center of attention, and then Catherine blushed and Vincent bent to whisper something in her ear that only served to darken the pink tinge on her cheeks. Vincent touched his forehead to the top of Catherine's head for the briefest of moments, and then turned to address the gathered crowd.

"Thank you for joining us in this very special celebration. Please, help yourselves to the food. And I believe—" he nodded toward the far corner of the chamber where a string quartet was poised and ready to play, "we will soon be treated to some wonderful music."

There was a scattering of applause and a general move in the direction of the food-laden tables, but Diana stayed where she was, watching Vincent and Catherine come down the steps. How had they entered the chamber without anybody noticing? If the main doors had been opened, surely the wind would've blown out all the candles. It was almost as if they'd appeared there by magic, transported through space and time to grace the gathering with their presence. Diana almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of that thought. Where had her pragmatism gone? Where was the fatalistic cynicism with which she usually viewed the world?

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to greet you when you first arrived," Father said, his unexpected appearance at her side distracting her from the mystery. "I want to thank you for what you did for Vincent and Catherine. What you did for all of us."

"I was just doing my job." It was her standard response to such comments, and yet it seemed out of place and insubstantial in this fairy-tale world.

"No." His vehemence took her by surprise. "Without you, we would have lost them both. And they are everything to us."

They watched together as Vincent and Catherine made their way through the crowd of well-wishers to join them.

"Father," Vincent said, amused, "are you monopolizing our guest?"

"Not at all, I was just thanking her for her help."

"And embarrassing her." Catherine smiled warmly. "But he's right, Diana. We owe you everything."

Diana changed the subject, desperate to steer the conversation away from herself. "I never would have guessed so many people could live down here. How do you all manage?"

"We help each other," Father said, "and we have friends in the world Above who do what they can."

"Yes, but where do you get food? Clothes? Medical care?"

Vincent tilted his head, humor lurking in his eyes. "So many questions."

Diana let her eyes skip away to the loaded tables. "Occupational hazard, I guess."

"Are you hungry?" Catherine asked. "There's plenty of food."

"Good food!" piped up a new voice, startling Diana. Did everybody move so stealthily down here? "Brought cake!"

Mouse, she remembered. Some day she'd love to learn his story. He seemed such an unusual boy. Diana accepted the cake even though she wasn't really hungry. He was so friendly and eager to please. She didn't have the heart to disappoint him.

"Thank you."

Mouse's answer was a wide grin and a quick, shy nod before he turned to Vincent and Catherine. "Naming today," he said brightly, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. "Wedding tomorrow?"

Diana blinked, stunned by the bluntness of the question. And yet, she couldn't deny a keen interest in the response. Luckily, Vincent and Catherine seemed amused rather than annoyed. Vincent put his arm around Catherine's waist before answering.

"We thought," he said, with a quick glance at Father, "perhaps next week?"

Mouse stared, wide-eyed, and Diana was certain he hadn't expected Vincent to take him seriously. Then he broke into a brilliant smile.

"Okay good! Okay fine!" An instant later he'd scurried away from them to climb up on one of the heavy chairs. "Everybody! Look!"

Silence fell and the clatter of forks and knives stuttered to a stop as heads turned in Mouse's direction. Catherine leaned against Vincent, a soft smile lighting her eyes when Vincent brushed a kiss against the top of her head.

"Vincent and Catherine are getting married!"

There was an instant of stunned surprise, and then everybody started talking at once. In moments, Vincent and Catherine were surrounded by well-wishers, and Diana allowed herself to be pushed back, separate from these people whose lives were so intricately intertwined.

She wandered over to one of the long wooden tables and sat down to eat her cake, but before she could put the first bite in her mouth, somebody sat down beside her.

"Hi, I'm Pascal. We met a little while ago. At the naming ceremony?"

"I remember. Hi." She put down her fork and smiled at him.

He shifted restlessly and shot a glance toward the doors. "I, um, can't stay for long, but I wanted to thank you."

More gratitude. She might drown in it before the day was over. Still, it was nice to be appreciated. "It was nothing. Really."

"I've embarrassed you." Pascal dropped his eyes and fiddled with an abandoned napkin. "I'm sorry. I just . . . I wanted you to know how much Vincent means to us. How much they both mean to us."

Diana looked toward Vincent and Catherine. She could just make out the top of Vincent's head as he bent to speak with somebody. "I can see that."

Pascal followed the direction of her gaze. "He's an amazing man."

"Yes. He is."

"If there's ever anything you need, anything we can do to help . . . just ask."

"Thank you. I appreciate that." She hardly expected to take advantage of the offer. She was moving to Portland, for God's sake. Still, it was a generous offer.

"Look." Pascal gestured with his chin, and Diana looked up to see Catherine and Vincent moving across the room. Catherine handed baby Jacob to one of the women, and then Vincent took her hand in his as he led her onto the makeshift dance floor. An instant later, the sweet, high tones of a lone violin filled the air.

Vincent stopped and turned, and Diana experienced an instant of breathless anticipation before he took Catherine in his arms and eased her into a slow waltz. The sight of the two of them, their bodies moving across the dance floor in perfect synchrony, was breathtaking, and Diana swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat. Whatever else Vincent may have been or done in his life, his presence here was right and true, and she didn't believe him capable of cold-blooded murder any more than she believed that frogs could fly.

She'd done the right thing here, and her spirits soared with the knowledge that for once, one of her cases had come with a happy ending.

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent and Catherine guided her back to the tunnel entrance sometime after midnight. At the stone portal, Diana stopped and turned to face them.

"I want to thank you," she said, "for making me feel welcome."

"You felt welcome because you are welcome," Vincent said. "If ever you need a home, or a place to rest, these tunnels and chambers will be kept warm for you by friends."

They were so generous, these people who lived, mole-like, far beneath the hustle and bustle of city life. But it was a tenuous existence at best. How long could they survive here, undiscovered? How long before the cruelties of her world invaded the peaceful tranquility of this one? She didn't know the answer, but she would do everything in her power to protect their secret.

"I have a confession to make," she said, turning to Catherine. "I took your rose bush."

"The little one on my balcony?"

Diana nodded. "I was afraid it would die if I left it there."

"I'm surprised it's still alive."

"I wasn't sure it was when I took it home. But I pruned it back and watered it, and a few days ago it bloomed."

"Both colors?" Pleased surprise brightened Catherine's eyes and brought a smile to her lips.

"Yes. It's gorgeous. You should see it."

"I have seen it," Catherine said, with a quick glance up at Vincent, "and it _is_ beautiful." She stepped close and touched Diana's arm. "I'm glad you took it. It's right that it should find a new life with you."

Vincent pressed the hidden lever, and with a low rumble, the stone panel rolled aside, revealing the shadowed entrance to the world Above.

Diana smiled a little sadly. She hadn't known them for long, and yet they seemed like very dear friends. She would miss them. "Goodbye, Vincent. Goodbye, Catherine."

Their voices mingled and danced in the shadows, the words, "Be well," echoing in Diana's ears long after the portal closed behind her. She stood still while the magic drifted away like wisps of candle-smoke on the gentle spring breeze.

Then she tugged at her jacket, lifted her shoulders, and with her back straight and her head held high, returned to her own world.

**xXx**

**xXx**

**Epilogue**

**xXx**

**xXx**

Vincent stood quietly, his heartbeat slow and heavy in his chest, his eyes fixed on the stone steps. Each one bore a pair of tall candleholders, and each candleholder held a single white candle, the effect that of a golden pathway of dancing light. Behind him, dozens of well-wishers waited in expectant silence beyond the double row of candelabras that continued the pathway from where he stood to the makeshift altar at the other end of the Great Hall. The community's anticipation was almost palpable—a breathless suspense that filled the chamber with excitement—so that the air itself seemed almost to shimmer with it.

But Vincent might as well have been alone, so intent was he on Catherine and on the joy that flowed to him through their bond. She hadn't yet arrived, though he knew she was close. The wind howled outside the heavy double doors, but it could not enter here, and Vincent knew that Catherine, too, walked in peace, descending to him by candlelight through a narrow, little used passage-way that bypassed the Chamber of the Winds. In a moment, she would step through the hidden entrance at the top of the steps, delivered safely into his keeping by the same tunnels that had been his refuge all his life.

Somewhere behind him, a pair of violins eased into the first sweet notes of Vivaldi's "Spring"—one of his favorite pieces, and one that seemed eminently appropriate. For the tunnel community, a long hard winter had come to an end, a winter of the soul—brutal with pain and loss. Spring had finally arrived, bringing with it a sense of hope and of new beginnings, and Vincent felt as if he and Catherine stood together on a precipice. A new life was opening up before them, a life filled with priceless gifts.

A sound, the faintest brush of silken slipper against cold stone, drew his attention upward, and suddenly she was there. His breath caught in his throat as he recognized her dress. It was the same one she'd worn on their first anniversary; the night he'd given her the crystal that glowed with rainbow fire against her breast; the night she'd given him the ivory rose that rested against his own heart. He remembered how amazed he'd been that she'd chosen to honor the occasion of their first meeting, a time of pain and fear, with dancing light. And he remembered how she'd looked at him, her gaze filled with love and trust. That night, for the first time, he'd allowed himself to dream.

A sensation of having come full-circle washed over him as she started down the steps. That night seemed so long ago, its tender promise little more than a distant memory. They were different people now, each altered by all that had happened since and by the mysterious bond that joined them together. How strange, that one person could affect another so deeply—and how wondrous.

Her eyes found his, held, and she glided toward him as though drawn forward by the air itself. She was his everything—his past, his present, his future—his world. She was stunningly, breathtakingly beautiful, and the idea that he, of all people, should be blessed with her love was a source of unending amazement. He wanted to sprint up the steps, swing her into his arms, and carry her off someplace where he could have that beauty all to himself—his own private treasure.

He shook off the selfish thought, but it was only with the greatest effort of will that he kept his place, holding her gaze, his hand outstretched toward hers. And when, a moment later, she slipped her fingers into his, it was as though heaven itself had taken up residence against his palm. For an instant, all breath, all thought . . . left him, and he floundered, uncertain. Then she smiled, her eyes catching the flickering candlelight, and he knew that his entire life had been but a prelude to this moment.

She stepped close, the heat of her body radiating gentle warmth. The bond glowed with her happiness, and Vincent could almost imagine it lighting the air around her, enveloping them both in its brilliant, golden aura.

"Ready?" Her voice seemed to shimmer and dance, as delicate as butterfly wings.

"Yes." The single syllable couldn't possibly convey the wealth of emotion that swelled in his chest, and yet it was all he could manage. In a matter of minutes, Father would perform the simple ceremony that would bind them forever as husband and wife. It was a prospect both daunting and miraculous.

With tender care, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, folding his fingers over hers.

Then, together, they turned to face their destiny.

**xXx**

**xXx**

**xXx**

**xXx**

**A final note from the author**: I'd like to thank you for reading this story and for taking the time to let me know your thoughts along the way. It's been a long road to get here, and frankly, reaching the end is a little bittersweet. If you would like a personal copy of this work for your files, please visit my website at wordslesstraveled dot com (a direct link is available through my profile) where you will find the story available for download in a variety of formats. And again, thank you for joining me on this rather epic journey. Be well. Ayiana


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